On Bear Mountain

by Deborah Smith

  “What does a man do?” Arthur asked again, picking up the end of a heavier beam.

  “A man doesn’t let go of that sucker unless he wants to drop it on his toes,” Quentin told him, and grabbed the opposite end. They guided the beam out the hole. Arthur held on with the somber concentration of a monk studying sacred texts. “Now a man lets go,” Quentin told him. The beam fell with a satisfying thud. Arthur smiled. Quentin gave him a thumbs up. There was so much gentleness in him. Arthur saw it, and suddenly, so did I.

  I looked up at Quentin Riconni and, without warning, without common sense or logic, without the space to hide the idea even from myself, I thought, I really want to love you.

  • • •

  The phone rang and I answered it dully. “Daddy passed out with chest pains yesterday,” Janine announced.

  “Is he all right?”

  “He’ll do. The doctor put him on new angina medication and tranquilizers. He’s been under a lot of stress, lately. I wonder why. He wants to see you for lunch tomorrow. Clearing the air might make him feel better. Will you come?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Janine, I’m sorry I pushed you into the beef jerky.”

  “No, you’re not. But I’ll make a pact with the devil if you’ll be nice to my father at lunch.”

  “I’ll take that invitation, Beelzebub, and thank you.”

  She hung up.

  • • •

  Tiber Crest, a large, plantation-like estate a few miles west of town, had become the Tiber family’s centerpiece in the 1960s, after Mr. John received the land as a wedding gift and built a huge, white-columned house. Among Tiber employees, the estate was jokingly known as Rooster Hill.

  My drive into the estate on a winding paved lane took me past acres of old apple orchards parading up terraced hillsides bordered with pristine white fences. Decorative black beef cattle grazed in lush, pastured glens. As the road reached the main house, a flock of stately hens and roosters carved from marble peeked at me from among beds of azaleas and laurel. A lot of people in the mountains decorated their yards with faux critters — deer, geese, an occasional bear cub carved in silhouette out of plywood — but marble chickens were a Tiber specialty. Tibers took their yard art seriously.

  The three-story, white-columned house at Tiber Crest sat grandly atop a hill that looked due east toward town. As I drove into the stone courtyard I heard the college’s noon chapel bells, carried like a recital on the high mountain breeze. On any clear day the house’s occupants could sit on one of several upstairs balconies and glimpse the steeples of the churches, the courthouse, and the college administration building. Not that I had ever had that chance. During the rare times when Mr. John had forced Janine to invite me to a birthday party — and Daddy had forced me to go — Janine had relegated me to her B-list, meaning I did not go up to admire Janine’s fluffy bedroom and personal balcony.

  Tricky Stuart, a fellow B-lister, opened the mansion’s double doors as I reached for the bell. She grinned at me. “Hey, Bearclaw.” My nickname from high school. “Hey, Tricky.” Her given name. She wore a blue polyester pantsuit as a maid’s uniform. We’d grown up comparing calluses and grotesque dead-chicken stories. Her parents still made a living as chicken farmers, and had mortgaged themselves well into the new century with five new chicken houses. Tricky and her husband lived with them and helped run the business, supplementing their income with Tricky’s job at Tiber Crest. She was struggling to raise four children, and do it with style. She wore her coal-black hair with a blond skunk streak, a gold-capped molar flashed on one side of her smile, and hard, no-bullshit expectations were carved into her eyes. “How’s your New Yorker?”

  I handed her a double-handful of yellow roses Liza had cut for me to bring. There was no point addressing any of Tricky’s comments. They were a ritual, the shorthand for telling me her place in the social order, and mine. “My New Yorker’s rebuilding my barn,” I said. “I think he’s putting in a subway.”

  She launched into a whispered account of everything the Tibers were saying about Quentin (troublemaker, bad influence, uppity outsider) as she led me down a hall hung with gilt-framed portraits of notable dead Tibers. Since all Tibers considered themselves notable, it was a long hall. I read a nameplate on an unfamiliar portrait, and stopped abruptly.

  The portrait’s subject had rich-looking copper-brown hair, done up elaborately. Her buxom body had been straitjacketed in an elaborate turn-of-the-century gown that looked as if she were planning a cruise on the Titanic. Her face was stately. She looked a little like Daddy and me, and for good reason.

  Bethina Grace Powell Tiber gazed down at her kin with soft blue Powell eyes and the hint of unhappiness in her smile. I had never seen anything except one grainy photo of her as a child, taken from a tintype. Daddy had kept it in a frame on the living room lamp table. The woman who linked modern-day Tibers and Powells did not look like a crazy hoyden, a wicked adulteress, or in more brutal terms of eras past, a nigger’s whore. She looked lovely and sad. “Tricky, where’d this painting come from?”

  “Mr. John had it hung last week. It was brung down from his old Aunt Dotty Tiber’s house in South Carolina. Esme inherited it from old Dotty, and Esme loves the picture, and Mr. John and Janine are trying to make Esme feel at home, so they put it on the wall for her. Bless her sweet, silly heart.”

  “Who’s Esme?”

  “Mr. John’s niece. William’s daughter. You know — William — the brother that got killed climbing some mountain way back when. They say he was one of the Powell throwbacks, like Miss Betty. Moongazer. Wanderer. That’s what they say around here.” I vaguely recalled that William Tiber had died in a climbing accident in some exotic land when I was a girl. “I never knew he was married, much less had a daughter.”

  “Wasn’t married. Got some girl pregnant. She turned over their baby girl after the doctors said it wasn’t right in the head. Dotty raised her. Esme. Now Dotty’s passed on and Esme’s here. Nineteen years old and her engine don’t quite fire on all cylinders, you know? I guess you’d call her mildly retarded. Well, don’t call her that around here. Around here she’s got ‘special needs.’”

  I was still recovering from the portrait. This story of a second stranger in the house made me look around as if I’d been invited to a surprise party and more people might pop out at any moment. I couldn’t help wondering if Mr. John had hung our notorious relative’s portrait as a message of reconciliation. Tricky kept up a stream of trivia, rhetoric, and gossip as we walked through to a bright, flower-filled sun room on one back corner. Mr. John, dressed in a golf shirt and white trousers, looking pale and a little wan, rose from a patio table and motioned for me to sit down. No hugging, no jovial booming “Ursula girl!” which had become his habit over the years.

  We sat down over iced tea and chicken salad with yeast rolls, and looked at each other sadly. “How are you feeling?” I asked.

  “Uh. Doctor’s got me on new angina medication. Guess I’ll tick along a little easier, now.”

  “How’s Janine?”

  “Her pride’s sore.”

  “I’m sorry about what happened. And for the record, Quentin Riconni didn’t intend for his meeting with you to turn into a fiasco, either.”

  He scowled at Quentin’s name. “I’ll try to be fair and give him his due. That’s better than him giving me a heart attack.” I nodded. Mr. John suddenly pushed his dish away and leveled a stern gaze at me. “It breaks my heart to be at odds with you. I promised myself I’d look out for you and Arthur after Tommy died. I want to make up to him for not including him in my family in a more respectful way. Am I such a mean old man that you can only hate me?”

  “I don’t hate you at all. I wish things were different.”

  “Well there, now! Don’t you know that Janine and you have a lot in common? Smart and fine-looking young women, hard workers, ambitious. Your advantage is being more practical, because you weren’t pampere
d the way her mama pampered Janine. You don’t know how many times I’ve held you up as an example for her. I fear I’ve made hard feelings between y’all because she resents my admiration for you.”

  “I’ve always envied her.”

  “Then you two should be able to sit down and make amends, shouldn’t you?”

  “I’d love to have a heart-to-heart with Janine, sometime.” When hell freezes over and pigs fly.

  “Wonderful!” He began to polish the teaspoon with his napkin, frowning at it, studying glimmers of his own reflection. “Has Quentin made you a solid offer for the sculpture?”

  I froze. “Mr. John, if you intend to sue me for a share of the sculpture’s value, I want to know now.”

  He laid the spoon down. “Please forget what I said about that. It was nonsense spoken in anger. I despise your Iron Bear. The fact that it’s valuable and that Richard Riconni’s work has become so reputable is the greatest irony of the entire mess.” He winced. “Irony. Even my puns can’t escape the thing’s influence.”

  “A deal’s not likely to happen, at any rate. It’s up to Arthur, and I don’t think he’ll give up the Bear.”

  “But you’d let it go if he agrees? Really?”

  “Yes.” The word sounded hollow. I felt empty, inside. “For the amount of money involved, I’d be irresponsible not to sell it.”

  “Good for you. I know you want to make something of yourself and that wild old farm of yours. You’ve got to keep Arthur together, too, body and soul. But you don’t need some scruffy outsider poking around, making you idle promises and causing you grief. If the sculpture’s so valuable, collectors would offer you just as much money as he does. Get rid of Quentin Riconni, for your own sake.”

  “I can’t do that to him.”

  “What if he turns out to be no better than some of those shiftless folks who took advantage of your daddy?”

  “He’s not that type.”

  “How do you know? I hear he’s charmed you. I hear he’s a regular wizard in Arthur’s eyes.”

  I spent a moment folding my linen napkin, bending its Tiber monogram out of shape between my fingers. “He’s a good man, at heart.”

  “Well, so am I. Haven’t I proved that to you and your folks a time or two?”

  I nodded. Liza had confided to me that he’d intervened on Daddy’s behalf in the terrible situation two years earlier. When federal agents arrested Daddy’s tenant for dealing drugs, and found some of his stash in his apartment at the farm, Mr. John had used his influence to ward off a DEA confiscation of Bear Creek.

  Watching me, Mr. John sighed. “I knew Tommy had no idea one of his tenants was a criminal. I couldn’t let a scandal like that mar his family name. We’re related.”

  He always considered the Tiber reputation. Nonetheless, I owed him some humility. “I never thanked you. I’m thanking you, now.”

  “No thanks needed, honey. You see? We’re family. So just humor me and listen up about Quentin Riconni.”

  The humility phase ended quickly. I stiffened. “You were right then, but you’re wrong now.”

  “Now, listen here — ”

  “I saw Bethina Grace’s picture in the hallway.” Changing the subject was a good option.

  Mr. John gazed at me impatiently. “It’s time to put that past to bed. Time to say Powells and Tibers are proud to be kin.”

  “Good. I’d like a favor from you.”

  He scowled. “Just ask, honey.”

  “I’d like for you to write a letter of apology to Quentin Riconni’s mother. Tell her you were the one who had the sculpture removed from campus and you told the college to let people believe it was destroyed.”

  He stared at me. His mood was now ice cold. “Never. And if that’s the only reason you came to have lunch with me, today, then just go on and — ”

  Tricky ran into the sun room. “Esme’s took the golf cart again!”

  Mr. John slapped a hand on the table. “Close the gate!”

  “I already done that, but she’s headed down the driveway and you know she’s going to be upset when she gets there.” Mr. John lumbered to his feet, his face grim. “You’ve heard about my new guest? My niece?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, she’s grieving for her Aunt Dotty and homesick for South Carolina, and she keeps trying to run away.”

  I stood. “In a golf cart?”

  “She’s slow-minded. About golf cart speed. Tricky, get my car out.”

  “I can catch up with her faster than Tricky can,” I said. I ran out of the house, got in Daddy’s truck, and drove quickly down the winding lane. I saw the golf cart idling in front of the tall ornamental iron gate at its forested intersection with the public road. Esme Tiber’s delicate blond head was bent to the steering wheel. Her shoulders shook.

  I walked up to her slowly. She was sobbing so hard she hadn’t noticed my arrival. She was barefoot, dressed in pale blue shorts and a Minnie Mouse T-shirt, with flowery canvas luggage piled beside her. On the back of the golf cart, where bags and clubs are usually carried, she’d inserted the framed portrait of Bethina Grace.

  “Esme?” I said in quiet wonder. She gasped and straightened, scrubbed eyes the soft blue color of old jeans in a sweet, heart-shaped face, then yelled, “Bethina Grace! You’re alive!”

  “No, my name is Ursula. But I’m a relative of Bethina Grace’s, just like you. I’m your cousin.”

  “My cousin Ursula. Ursula. Ursula. Oh!” She clambered out, a nineteen-year-old child whose slow, tinkling voice made me think of a fairy on tranquilizers. Despite her tragic eyes and tear-swollen face, she threw her arms around me in a hug. I had no choice but to hug her back. “I’m Esme, Esme Tiber, Esme, Esme,” she chanted against my shoulder. “Can you open the gate?”

  “I’m afraid not. Why do you want to leave?” She stepped back, her lower lip crumpled, and I grasped her hand as if she were indeed a child. “Are you homesick?” She nodded fervently, trying so hard not to cry that she made soft snorting noises.

  I squeezed her hand. “My brother gets homesick when he goes very far away. I understand.” She stared past me at Daddy’s colorful truck, her eyes widened, and she was distracted. “What is that?”

  “That,” I said dryly, “is a magic Powell-mobile.”

  She darted past me and ran to the truck, where she stroked her fingers over a cartoonish black bear strolling with angels and dinosaurs across the right fender. She whirled around. “Are you the Iron Bear lady?”

  “I suppose so. I live at Bear Creek. And that’s where the Iron Bear is.”

  “Miss Betty!”

  “I’m not Miss Betty, I’m Ursula.”

  “No, no, I’m talking about Miss Betty and the Iron Bear and how it went to live at Bear Creek. Aunt Dotty told me stories from the time I was little. I have the book.”

  “The book?”

  She ran back to the golf cart, unzipped one of her bags, and dug through a jumble of clothing and shoes, then tossed a small, pearl-handled revolver on the pile. She kept digging in her possessions while I gingerly picked up the gun. A quick check showed no bullets in the chambers. I exhaled in relief. “Esme? Is this yours?”

  “Oh, yes.” She was still searching for something. “Aunt Dotty gave it to me. I can shoot targets.” Tibers were all gun-loving hunters and sportsmen, so it didn’t really surprise that even the most tender among them had a passion for firepower. I laid the revolver aside.

  “Here!” she exclaimed happily. She pulled out an old black scrapbook with Betty Tiber Habersham’s name embossed on one corner in fading gold. “Miss Betty’s book! Aunt Dotty gave it to me.”

  We sat down on the side of the lane and she opened the yellowed scrapbook. In it were dozens of pictures and articles, all about the Iron Bear. “That’s my father,” I said, and pointed to a newspaper photo of Daddy painting the Bear during its vandalized campus years. “And that’s me.” A snapshot of Miss Betty’s showed me at about four years old, straddling the Bear’
s head as if I were riding a circus elephant.

  Esme Tiber gaped at me. “Will you auto . . . auto — ” she struggled with her mental thesaurus — “sign the picture?”

  Despite some embarrassment on my part, we got a pen from my purse, and I autographed the picture across one corner. She hugged the book to her chest. “I made up a lot of stories about the Iron Bear. It was my friend when I was a girl. Now it’s my only friend.” Tears welled in her eyes.

  “That’s not true. You’ll get used to living here. It’s a wonderful place. And you’ll make a lot of new friends.”

  “Like you? Can I come visit you and the Iron Bear, please? Please, please?” Her eyes were lonely and hopeful.

  What was happening to me, today? Tibers were surrounding me and luring me into their lives. “Why don’t you ask Mr. John if Tricky could drive you over to visit sometime?”

  “Oh, I will!”

  “But you have to promise not to run away anymore.”

  “All right!”

  “How’s about I back up the driveway and you follow me in the golf cart?”

  “Okay.”

  Esme Tiber might not be the smartest chicken in the flock, but she was Mario Andretti behind a wheel. She zoomed up the driveway after me and careened the cart to a stop in the courtyard, where Mr. John and Tricky were waiting. “I’m going to visit the Iron Bear and Ursula soon,” she announced. “I won’t run away again. I promised Ursula!”

  Mr. John’s expression was dark. He drew me aside. “I will not have her visit there as long as Quentin Riconni is in residence.”

  “I’m sorry, then.” Stiff with dignity, I thanked him for lunch. He gave me a sorrowful but curt nod. I drove down the lane in a daze. Even though he’d told Tricky to open the remote-controlled gate for me, I had to wait for the pulleys to ease its two wings apart. A peculiar panic came over me, a claustrophobic squeeze that made me breathe hard. I couldn’t stop thinking about strange, sad little Esme, who was trapped more than most people by her own shortcomings and her family’s conventions. Now she was caught in the unfolding complications of my situation with Quentin.