Bridge to Cutter Gap / Silent Superstitions / The Angry Intruder

by Catherine Marshall

  After a few moments of silence, Jeb and David started playing again. Before long, the dancing was in full swing, and Wraight’s fall was forgotten.

  But no matter how hard she tried, Christy could not forget the look of anger in his eyes.

  Eight

  Wraight ran into the mission house because it was the only place he could think of where he could hide from the laughter and the stares. He’d looked like a complete fool out there, in front of all of Cutter Gap. Worst of all, he’d looked like a fool in front of Lizette.

  He felt the rage inside him like a wild animal clawing to come out. He wanted to hurt something, or maybe even somebody.

  He knew it was wrong to feel like this. But he couldn’t seem to help it.

  There were noises coming from the kitchen. He heard women’s voices. The parlor was empty. He leaned against the wall, trying to catch his breath. He was covered with mud. It was on the floor, on the wall, anywhere he touched. What a sight he must have made out there in the yard! Was it any wonder they’d all laughed?

  It didn’t used to be this way. For as long as Wraight could remember, he’d been the one the other children had looked up to—not the one they laughed at. They’d pat him on the back, shake his hand, try to be his friend. He could hunt better, and shoot better, and play the dulcimer better than any of them, and they all knew it.

  But ever since the mission school had come around, things had changed. Not a day went by that Miz Christy, with her numbers and her letters and her books, didn’t manage to make him feel like a fool. When he felt like that, the anger boiled in him like a kettle on a fire, so hot it burned inside.

  He’d known he shouldn’t have come to the open house tonight. He’d told Lundy a thousand times he didn’t want to. But Lundy had told Wraight he was coming, like it or not. Lundy was hoping to get hold of some moonshine and have a time of it.

  Besides, Zach had wanted to come so bad. Their ma and pa weren’t coming, and the only way Zach could come was if Wraight did, too. He’d practically begged Wraight. How could Wraight have said no? He would do anything for Zach, and Zach would do anything for him. So that was that. Wraight had agreed to come.

  He glanced down at his legs. His feet and hands were covered with mud. He wiped his hands on his shirt, but that just made things worse. He had to get out of here. He’d grab Zach and make him head on home. He wondered, if he went back outside, if the laughter would start all over again.

  Wraight’s eyes fell on the big, gleaming piano. The top was propped open with some kind of stick. He started for the door, but something held him back, like a hand grabbing hold of his thoughts.

  If he went over to that piano, he’d see the insides. See what made it work.

  Slowly Wraight approached the piano, as if it were something alive. His feet left big footprints of mud. He glanced toward the kitchen. He was safe. No one was coming. Miss Ida, who’d shooed him away yesterday, was nowhere around.

  He looked inside the piano and gasped. He saw wires, more than anyone could count, tight and long. He touched one with a muddy finger. So many more strings than his dulcimer!

  Wraight stepped over to the bench. Even that was a sight to behold, all shiny and smooth. He sat down, almost without knowing what he was doing.

  The little key things were lined up like soldiers. Black were thinner than white. He rested a finger on one, then slowly let it sink down. A soft whisper of a sound, like a dove’s coo, came out of the piano’s insides.

  Another key, this one black. He touched it softly, too, not wanting to draw attention. This time the sound was a low grumble, like thunder at the end of a storm.

  Something inside him changed. The boiling kettle of anger cooled. His guts weren’t all twisted and tight anymore. He could feel the hate dripping away, the way it always did when he played his music.

  How many times had he gone to his dulcimer when he’d felt angry? He remembered all those times he and his pa had nearly come to blows. The only thing that would make everything go away was playing and playing till you forgot what it was that had you so riled. He missed that. He hadn’t known how much, till just now.

  Wraight ran his fingers gently up and down the whole keyboard. It was sweet, the way the keys gave way and then popped back up, ready for more. With his eyes closed, he did it again, so softly that only a few notes sounded. When he opened his eyes, he looked down in horror to see that he’d left a long trail of mud on the beautiful white keys.

  Just then, the front door opened and Miz Christy came in. The preacher was with her, and John Spencer’s mama, and a whole lot of others, too.

  “And here’s our new pride and joy,” Miz Christy said gaily. “The mission’s very own grand piano!”

  Then Wraight saw her. Lizette. She was standing at the edge of the group, staring at his muddy clothes with wide, shocked eyes.

  Wraight gulped. He had to get out of here, and he had to get out fast. He pushed back the bench and leapt up.

  “Wraight!” Miz Christy exclaimed. “There you are.” Her eyes dropped to the floor. “Oh, no! Miss Ida’s going to have a fit when she sees these footprints!” She rolled her eyes when she noticed the mud on the piano keys. “Wraight,” she moaned. “Couldn’t you at least have cleaned yourself up first?”

  “I—I just wanted to . . .” Wraight muttered.

  “I ’spect he thought he could play us all a tune,” somebody said, and the laughter started all over again.

  “I could play, if’n I had the chance!” Wraight cried. The blood was rushing to his head. He clenched his hands. His stomach churned.

  “Well, before you play us a tune, wash up those hands,” Miz Christy said. She was smiling, but Wraight knew it wasn’t a friendly smile. It was the kind of smile you made when you were laughing on the inside.

  He stepped back. The bench fell, crashing to the floor. Wraight pushed his way through the crowd and out the door. He could feel Lizette’s eyes on him. He wanted to hurt something again. And he wanted to run.

  For now, he would run. Later—tonight, maybe—there would be plenty of time for the hurting.

  Christy lay in bed, tossing and turning. It was two in the morning, but she couldn’t seem to get to sleep.

  Maybe it was the excitement of the open house. It had lasted into the wee hours, and everyone had agreed it was a huge success. To her relief, no windows had been broken, nothing had caught on fire, no fights had started. And there’d been no pranks, thank goodness—just lots of joking and laughing and dancing.

  Christy had even danced a couple dances with Dr. MacNeill. Surprisingly, he was a good dancer. And she had to admit he’d looked very dashing this evening, in his fancy coat and tie. His hair was even neatly combed—for once.

  After they were done dancing, Fairlight had whispered that she’d seen David watching Christy and the doctor very carefully. “If I didn’t know better, Miz Christy,” she’d said, “I’d swear to you that grumpy look on the preacher’s face was pure green envy!”

  Christy wondered if Fairlight could be right. Probably not. Christy and David were just friends—weren’t they? And as for the doctor . . . well, he couldn’t possibly be interested in Christy romantically. At least, she didn’t think so.

  Well, she could worry about that another day. The important thing was that the party had been a success. Everyone had danced and sung and told tall tales, and just generally seemed to enjoy the company of their neighbors. She had even played a few tunes — badly—on the piano, along with Jeb and David and some of the others.

  The thought of the piano made her sigh out loud. Why hadn’t she handled things better with Wraight this evening? She hadn’t meant to embarrass him about getting the piano dirty, but clearly she had.

  Lizette, who was spending the night here at the mission house with Ruby Mae and Bessie, had told Christy not to worry. She’d said that lately, Wraight seemed to have a temper that could flare up like a bonfire. “It isn’t your fault, Miz Christy,” she’d said sadly.
“Near as I can figure, it’s nobody’s fault.”

  Well, maybe so. But Christy was the teacher, and she should have known better than to humiliate Wraight, when he’d already been embarrassed in front of everyone once that night. Monday, she’d be sure to apologize to him. Not that her apology would probably change anything. But she had to try.

  She rolled over onto her side and tried to count sheep. She was on number eighteen when she heard a loud thump. She sat up in bed, waiting to see if she heard anything else.

  No, nothing. It was probably Ruby Mae and her two friends, creeping around and making mischief.

  Christy closed her eyes and started counting again. This time she made it to sheep number twenty-one before she heard another thud.

  She threw back her covers. Those girls were going to keep her up all night, unless she put a stop to this. Ruby Mae had promised she and the others would be on their best behavior. Christy smiled as she donned her robe. Come to think of it, this probably was their best behavior.

  Christy opened her door. She didn’t have a lamp with her, but the moonlight through the hall window was bright. She heard a creak coming from downstairs, the sound of a footstep on wood. The girls were probably in the kitchen, searching for the last of Miss Ida’s oatmeal cookies.

  Christy eased open the door to Ruby Mae’s bedroom. To her shock, all three girls were sleeping peacefully. Ruby Mae was snoring away.

  Her hand trembling slightly, Christy closed the door. Across the hall, Miss Ida’s door was closed, which probably meant she was sound asleep, too. She’d said she was exhausted, after all the frantic preparations for the open house.

  From somewhere downstairs came another thump. Christy’s heart raced. If it wasn’t Miss Ida, and it wasn’t the girls, who could be downstairs at this hour?

  Slowly, as quietly as she could, Christy crept down the stairs. Each step brought her a little closer to her fear.

  She heard a creak. “Miss Ida?” she called in a hoarse whisper.

  No one answered. Christy tried to swallow, but her throat was tight and dry.

  At last she reached the bottom of the stairs. Moonlight filled the parlor with a milky glow. Nothing moved. No one seemed to be there.

  She took two steps across the cold, wooden floor. She held her breath, and then she heard it—someone else’s breathing.

  Christy spun around.

  Near the piano, she saw him. He was tall and menacing, his face hidden in shadow. She could just make out the glimmer of a silver knife, poised high in the air over the open piano.

  The knife came down, in slow motion, and disappeared deep inside the piano. There was a sharp, metallic noise as it sliced through a wire.

  “No!” Without thinking, Christy dashed toward the figure. Suddenly she realized who it was. She came to an abrupt stop inches away from the intruder.

  “Wraight?” she whispered.

  His eyes shone in the moonlight with a terrible anger, like nothing she’d ever seen before. He lifted the knife again, high over Christy’s head.

  “No, Wraight!” she cried, and as the knife came down, she grabbed for his arm with all her might.

  Nine

  Christy locked her hands onto Wraight’s strong arm. The knife gleamed in the eerie light.

  “It’s been you all along, Wraight, hasn’t it?” she whispered.

  She felt his arm go limp. His eyes filled with tears.

  “Don’t do it, Wraight!” a boy’s voice cried.

  Christy spun around to see Zach, climbing through a half-open window on the other side of the room. He dashed across the room and threw himself against his big brother, sobbing frantically.

  Wraight let the knife drop to the floor. “I told you not to follow me again,” he said softly.

  Zach clung to Wraight, his arms tight around the older boy’s waist. “He wouldn’t never hurt you, Miz Christy,” Zach said. Tears streamed down his face. “He was just mad, is all. Like the other times.”

  Christy stared into Wraight’s face, hoping to find an explanation there. But all she saw was a confused, unhappy boy.

  “Was it you all those times, Wraight?” she asked. “The ink and the message on the school?”

  He hung his head, but didn’t answer.

  “And that time I was walking home from the Spencers’—was that you, too?”

  Wraight nodded slightly.

  “But I was sure it was Zach,” Christy said. “I thought Lundy was putting him up to it—”

  Wraight looked up. He had a grim half-smile on his face. “Do sound like Lundy, don’t it?”

  Christy touched Zach’s shoulder gently. “But Zach, why were you always there? I saw you at the schoolhouse, the night that message was left. And out in the woods . . .”

  Wraight held his brother close. “It weren’t him. It were me, every time. Zach, he’s like my twin or something. Or my—what is it the preacher calls it?—my conch . . . uh, my—”

  “Conscience,” Christy said.

  “He knew I was up to no good, and when I wouldn’t listen to nothing he had to say, he started following me around.” He touched Zach’s red cap. “Followed me tonight, too, even though I told him if’n he did I’d make him do my chores for a month.”

  “Christy?” Miss Ida called from the top of the stairwell. “Do I hear voices down there?”

  “Wait here,” Christy told the boys. She went to the stairs. Ruby Mae, Bessie, and Lizette were sitting on the top steps, yawning and rubbing their eyes.

  “Everything’s under control, Miss Ida. Go back to sleep,” Christy said. “That goes for you girls, too.”

  “Can’t sleep,” Ruby Mae said firmly. “You’ve got us all a-wondering what’s goin’ on.”

  “I can sleep just fine, thank you,” said Miss Ida. She turned on her heel and went back to her room.

  “You girls wait there,” Christy instructed.

  She went back to Zach and Wraight. “Zach,” she said, kneeling down, “I need to talk to your brother for a few minutes, all right? You go on up to the top of the stairs and wait. Some of your school friends are up there.”

  “Is they . . . girls?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Zach moaned. “See what you got me into?” he said to Wraight. He turned to Christy. “He ain’t in big trouble, is he, Teacher?”

  “Well, he’s in trouble,” Christy said. “But I wouldn’t worry, if I were you.”

  “If you whop him with a birch switch, he won’t cry a lick,” Zach said proudly.

  “I don’t think that will be necessary, Zach,” Christy said with a smile. “Now, you go on up.”

  Zach headed upstairs, and Christy motioned for Wraight to join her on the piano bench. He gazed at her doubtfully.

  “Come on, Wraight,” Christy said. “We need to talk.”

  After a moment, he sat down awkwardly beside her.

  Christy took a deep breath, trying to clear her thoughts. Moonlight flowed over the piano like liquid silver. Wraight’s sharp knife still lay on the floor. She could hear the soft whispers of Zach and the girls on the stairs.

  She thought of the spilled ink and the erased chalkboard. She thought of the angry message on the schoolhouse. She thought of her fear— that night in the woods—and again tonight.

  She was angry at Wraight. She wanted to tell him that. Part of her even wanted to scare him, the way he’d scared her.

  But when she looked at the quiet boy sitting beside her, staring at the piano keys as if they were bars of gold, she wondered if getting angry was the answer. She wanted to help Wraight, more than she wanted to get angry at him.

  Miss Alice had said that Christy had to understand the mountain people before she would ever be able to help them.

  Why would Wraight have turned on Christy? Why, when he seemed so entranced by the piano, would he try to hurt it?

  “You know, Wraight,” Christy said, “I’ll let you in on a little secret. Ever since I came here to the mission, I keep making mist
akes. Sometimes I feel like a real fool.”

  Wraight stared at her, mystified, as if she were speaking in a foreign language. “You?” he said at last. “Make mistakes? Ain’t likely.”

  “It’s true,” Christy insisted. “Like those donations I got for the mission. I thought they were a good idea, but it turned out Miss Alice was pretty unhappy with me. The way I asked for them wasn’t right. And we ended up with things we’re going to have a hard time using, like telephone wire—” she ran her fingers over the keys, “and, of course, this piano.”

  “This piano ain’t no mistake,” Wraight said firmly. “It’s the most amazin’ thing Cutter Gap ever seen. It’s like . . .”

  He threw open his arms, searching for the right word. “Like the biggest dulcimer in the whole, wide world, right here, just a-waitin’ for someone to help it sing.”

  Christy played a soft chord, three notes together that lingered in the air. “Then why did you cut that wire, Wraight? Why did you want to hurt the piano?”

  For a long time, Wraight sat silently, staring at the keyboard. “Sometimes,” he said at last, “when you can’t have something . . . it just makes you so mad, you feel like you’re going to bust up inside.”

  “But if you’d wanted lessons on the piano, I would have been glad to teach you, Wraight. Not that I’m much of a piano player, mind you. But all you had to do was ask.”

  Wraight gave a hard laugh. “And make more of a fool of myself than I have already? Not hardly.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Like it ain’t as plain as the nose on my face.”

  Christy touched him on the shoulder. “I don’t understand, Wraight. Really, I don’t. Try to explain it to me.”

  Wraight thought for a while. “I can’t step inside that there schoolhouse,” he said, avoiding her gaze, “without sayin’ or doin’ somethin’ so all-fired stupid that I sound like the biggest fool this side of Coldsprings Mountain. The way you’re always goin’ on about numbers and letters and such, it’s enough to make me—”

  “What? Make you angry?” Christy asked. At last she was beginning to understand.