Prayers the Devil Answers

by Sharyn McCrumb

  “Just think of the movies.” The woods looked mostly black-and-white to him, anyway: dark tree trunks and barren limbs, brown underbrush still locked in winter, and above it all a clabbered sky the color of milk. You could make them interesting in a painting, but not in a snapshot taken with a cheap camera.

  They had a quick lunch after church, and then she suggested a Sunday afternoon stroll through the woods and up the ridge. He went along, because it wasn’t worth saying he wanted to stay home and having a discussion about it, since it didn’t matter where he was, really. He knew he would barely notice the signs of spring, scarcely hear her voice, trapped as he was inside a fog of his own thoughts. Like clouds, it moved away sometimes, especially when something else distracted him, but it always came back. He couldn’t talk about that, though. Better to walk along in the April sunshine, see her joy in the coming of spring, and try to feel a little of it himself. He just hoped he would remember to answer when she spoke to him.

  The little box camera had been his gift to her at Christmas, but the winter had been harsh, giving her little chance to use it. The lens needed so much light that it was best to take the photographs outdoors, but there weren’t many pictures worth taking in freezing, wet weather, even if you were willing to brave the elements, which Celia wasn’t. She put him in mind of a cat—staying inside when it was cold, and always looking for the warmest place to sit. Now, though, she was venturing out on this damp, cool day, because she was so anxious to try out the camera. He was surprised by how much she liked it. She had always seemed most pleased by gifts of jewelry or perfume. Once, early on, he had given her a mechanical carpet sweeper for her birthday, thinking it much more effective than a straw broom, but she’d cried when she saw it. Sometime after that, he worked out why: she never thought she was pretty, no matter what he said to the contrary, and any present that did not honor her femininity diminished her even more.

  He thought Celia’s problem was a lack of confidence. Someone else he knew had a cheap prettiness concocted with hair bleach and dime store lipstick and rouge, and the blowsy plumpness that made her look like a slattern no matter what she wore, but that one never doubted her attractiveness, either from vanity or from the certainty that free and casual offers of sex was all the beauty that most men required. That woman and Jonella were as different as chalk and cheese, and he had taken too long to realize that they were much the same after all.

  Maybe he should have bought his wife a string of glass pearls or a flower brooch, but somehow it would have felt like lying. Instead, after several birthdays and Christmases of costume jewelry and drugstore perfume, he had risked buying her the camera, hoping that she would use it to focus on something besides herself. Much to his relief, it seemed to have worked. She was delighted. Having never had sisters or any serious girlfriends before her, he never knew what to do or say when a woman cried. The sight of her tears was so unsettling that he would do almost anything to avoid causing it—or at least to keep her from finding out that he had given her cause to weep. He trudged after her through the wet woods, scarcely noticing the faint signs of spring.

  The trees were still mostly bare and the ground was muddy from the March rains, but nevertheless this windy, sunny afternoon made a welcome change from the bleak chill of the weeks preceding it. It was good to get outside again. They had been married nearly three years, long enough for this walk in the woods to be a picture-taking expedition and not a romantic outing. It wasn’t that they didn’t care for each other, he told himself, just that eventually the newness of anything wears off, and you settle into a familiar routine without thinking much about it anymore. Their silences were companionable, a sign that they were comfortable together. Mostly they suited each other very well. He had just lately come to realize that, and to wish he had known it sooner.

  The day had been sunny when they set out from home, but the wind had blown clouds across the valley and shrouded the ridge they were climbing toward, dimming her hope of seeing a vista of spring. She didn’t complain, though, or suggest turning back. After a long winter cooped up indoors, it was good to be out. Besides, the weather was changing so quickly that it was hard to tell how the ridge would look when they finally reached it.

  Now the sun was playing hide-and-seek, changing the light so much from one minute to the next that taking photographs in the forest would produce uncertain results. The camera was a cheap one, all he could afford, and, because it was intended to be used for family snapshots, its lens could not be adjusted to accommodate changing conditions. She had been pleased by it, though, and that was all that mattered. He hoped the quality of the pictures would not change that.

  She was still giving the redbud tree an appraising stare. There were only eight pictures on a roll of film, and what with the cost of developing, she wouldn’t want to waste any. After a moment she shrugged and turned away without taking the picture. “You’re right, Lon. The flowers are beautiful, but in black and white that tree won’t look any different from the ordinary green ones.” The clouds shifted, and the ray of sunlight no longer illuminated the tree. “Maybe you ought to try to draw it instead of me trying to photograph it.”

  “Take your picture and we’ll see. I can use your snapshot as a model and do the colors from memory.”

  She smiled happily at this compromise and went back to looking for ways to make the tree worth photographing. She tried kneeling down to see if an upward angle made a better shot, but after a long look through the viewfinder, she stood up again. “I don’t know. Maybe the sun will come back. I guess I could take just one picture to see how it comes out.”

  “But by the time you get the pictures back from the drugstore, the redbud will have stopped blooming.”

  “Yes, but then I’d know for next year.” She looked back at the tree. “It might look pretty against the bare branches of the tall trees. I wonder why they call it a redbud when its flowers are bright pink.”

  He shrugged. “It has other names. My granddaddy used to call them spicewood trees, because people used the green twigs from them to season venison.”

  “Really? What did that taste like?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t really remember. I never ate venison without it. Anyhow, it’s been awhile since I had any. There aren’t so many deer about these days.”

  “I guess people are shooting a lot of them, and making them scarce. It stands to reason: not many can afford to buy beef these days. We’re lucky you still have a job.”

  He looked away. “Let’s try to find a redbud out in the sunshine. If you want to take any pictures of them, you’d better do it now.”

  “I know. The weather this time of year can’t be trusted, can it? This may be the last fine day for weeks. I just wish their flowering season lasted longer. Ten days from now that redbud’s color will be gone, and then it will be just like every other tree in the woods.”

  He sighed. “I reckon people are like that, too.”

  But she wasn’t listening. “There’s another redbud with the sun shining on it over there. I hope I can get the picture before the clouds block the light again.” She fumbled with the camera and looked up frowning. “It looks so plain over there all by itself. Lonnie, why don’t you go over and stand next to it? I know you’ll look good even when there’s no color in the photograph.”

  He winced, but he was careful to keep his face a blank. He remembered when being told that he looked good made his blood race, but now all he felt was shame. “Me? I don’t know about that.”

  “Oh, go on over there. It won’t take a minute. We can put the picture in the family album. There aren’t many pictures of either of us, and someday we may have a family who’ll want to know what we looked like when we were young.”

  Dutifully he waded through the knee-high brambles, and positioned himself stiffly beside the redbud tree. Before she clicked the shutter, she waited until he had put his hand on a redbud branch and
summoned a plaster smile. She took the photo and lowered the camera. “Here come the clouds again. But maybe I should take another one anyway. Maybe if you turned sideways . . .”

  “There might not be enough light here to make a clear picture when it’s cloudy, Celia. Maybe a newspaperman could get a good photo, because they have fancy flash attachments on their cameras. But regular people have to settle for whatever light there is. Let’s keep going.”

  She leaned in close to him and began to hum a tune. The words of the old hymn sprang to his mind: “Lord, they tell me of an unclouded day,” and he laughed, hugging her playfully. Celia had a quick, dry wit that still surprised him sometimes. She had never been beautiful, and she wasn’t even slender anymore, but she could always make him laugh, even now, when his troubles were on the verge of overwhelming him.

  For another quarter of an hour they walked along the path through the woods, but it was still too early in the spring for there to be many pleasing scenes to photograph. Just a few trees with tiny green leaves scattered among more redbuds. Finally, even Celia had to admit that if you’d seen one, you’d seen ’em all.

  She leaned against a still bare poplar, sighing with impatience. “Well, you were right, Lonnie. It’s probably too early to get any decent pictures, but I still have five shots on this roll before I can take it to town to get developed. The first one is Helen Watkins and the new baby at church. She’s so anxious to see it that I don’t have the heart to wait.”

  “If you’re in that much of a hurry, you could just point the camera at anything, just to use up the film.”

  “We can’t afford to waste money like that, Lon. Anyhow, I still have the second roll you bought me to go with the camera. I could use it, too, if we find some good views. I know you think I’m silly for being so particular with a little camera that I’ve barely learned how to use, but taking pictures is a little like being artist, isn’t it?”

  “I guess.”

  “I want to get an idea of what it feels like—of what you see when you look at the world. I want to understand. Besides, I can’t draw; my quilting is pitiful; and I can’t play the piano, so maybe this was meant to be my gift. Not just a Christmas gift from you—and the best one I ever got—but the gift of showing me a way to be creative. I’d like to be able to make something beautiful, the way you can. I mean to try to do it well. Can we go a little bit farther?”

  “As far as you like, Celia.”

  “We could still go up to the ridge.”

  He offered no suggestions of other scenes to photograph. They walked for a while in silence, separated on the path by a few yards, but neither of them seemed aware of it: Celia because she was trying to see the woods as a camera would, and Lonnie because he was tangled in his own imaginings.

  She frowned at a mud puddle blocking the path. “I’ll be cleaning shoes all evening, but it’s worth it to spend a day outdoors, isn’t it? The winter seemed to last forever. Spring is like being born again.”

  They picked their way single file through the mud and underbrush, closer together now because they were walking more slowly, but still not saying much beyond occasional offhand remarks about the scenery or the shifting clouds. Sprigs of briar were sticking to the back of Celia’s coat, and there were twigs in her dark hair. A few feet beyond the path he saw a small patch of purple flowers beside a fallen log, but he didn’t call her attention to it. The flowers were too small to show up well in a colorless photo. Three paces later he had forgotten them.

  She looked back at him and smiled. “We haven’t really spent a day just by ourselves in ages, have we? I was sick for that couple of weeks in February, and you’ve been working so long at the sawmill these days, it’s bedtime before we’ve even finished supper. As many extra hours as you’ve been working lately, I would think they’d pay you more.”

  “Well, they haven’t.”

  “Maybe you ought to talk to the foreman about it. You’re a good worker; I know you are.”

  He scowled. “I’m not going to ask them for more money. There’s plenty of men out there without any job at all, and I’m sure the mill could replace me in a flash, if I was to be troublesome.”

  “Well, don’t snap at me about it. We’ll be all right on what you earn. There’s just the two of us, and we still have canned vegetables from last summer yet to eat. I just wish you had more time for yourself. You haven’t done any painting in ages.”

  Nothing that she had seen. He had drawn one portrait and given it away, working on it in the evenings when she thought he was still at the sawmill. He regretted it now.

  After another quarter mile of tramping through woods Celia stopped and turned to him, her face alight. “I know the perfect place. What about The Hawk’s Wing? It’s just a ways farther up the ridge, and you can see for miles from up there.”

  “Yes. You can. We’ll go if you want to. I don’t mind.”

  She nodded. “There will be more light there. The valley and the dark mountains will stand out against the cloudy sky, even in black and white, don’t you think?”

  “I guess. I could make it look that way in a painting. I don’t know that much about taking pictures. It’s not all that far, though, if you want to try it out.” It might rain, of course, but there was no point in saying that.

  She walked faster now, so intent on reaching the rock ledge that she barely glanced at the redbuds or the bare black trees that stood along the path like dancers frozen in place. He ambled along just behind her, staring at the familiar tendrils of brown hair spilling over the collar of her cloth coat. The wind had picked up, and he wondered if it would rain before they could start back, but he said nothing because she wanted to finish the film before they started back.

  The woods ended at a clearing that ran along the edge of the ridge, and beyond it was sky. It was only when you walked closer to the edge that you could see the steep slope and the fields fringed with trees on the floor of the valley half a mile below. The pattern of fields and woods ended perhaps ten miles away, where a line of mountains on the horizon walled off the valley from the one beyond it.

  The Hawk’s Wing was a local landmark, popular on the postcards sold in roadside diners and at the souvenir shops that sold gimcrack crafts: beaded headbands with dyed chicken feathers and toy tomahawks, supposedly made by Cherokee artisans. A massive outcropping of granite, flat and smooth, The Hawk’s Wing thrust out from the side of the mountain like the prow of a ship, extending fifty feet out over the valley, and suspended half a mile above the valley floor. You could see it from miles away, and sometimes its shadow created a patch of shade covering the land beneath it. The rock was mentioned in the writings of the region’s earliest settlers, and crudely drawn on the oldest maps, a testimony to its long-standing stability. It had jutted out from the ridgeline for centuries; the proof of that could be found in the pen-and-ink sketches set down in the travel journals of eighteenth-century explorers. The Cherokees had a tale about a giant bird of prey that snatched a warrior from the mountain, and when the warrior prayed to the eternal mother Selu for help, the goddess turned the bird to stone, allowing the warrior to escape. Tradition had it that the promontory was the wing of the giant hawk, and that the rest of its body lay trapped inside the mountain. Pioneer legends claimed that Daniel Boone himself had ventured out on The Hawk’s Wing to look at the landscape so that he could plot his way farther west.

  Lonnie wondered why no one had suggested that scene for the mural in the post office.

  The ancient rock was nearly thirty feet wide, large enough to allow half a dozen people to walk out on it in order to see, and in this century to photograph, a panoramic view of the landscape—provided that they were not too afraid of heights to do so. One look downward at the sheer drop from the front and sides of The Hawk’s Wing had sent many a timid sightseer creeping on all fours back to the safety of the ridge. The braver tourists, who were usually foolhardy you
ng men, liked to sit on the very tip of the rock with their legs dangling over the edge so that their friends could photograph them against the backdrop of the magnificent mountain vista, or just to frighten their sweethearts with their bravado. The stunt was usually good for a few hugs and kisses when they walked back to the ridge.

  In the summer, when travelers from the coastal region took to the hills for the cool mountain air, the rock was generally swarming with sightseers, while more waited on the ridge for their own turn to venture out over the valley. Now, though, in the damp chill of early spring, the place was deserted. For the moment the clouds had broken, and the landscape was bathed in sunshine. Its rays created bands of light and shadow on the distant mountains, giving them the appearance of a tapestry woven with different-colored threads.

  Lonnie wished he had thought to propose to Celia on the ledge of The Hawk’s Wing, knowing that it would have been a beautiful spot to seal their romance, but he had not seen it then, and, besides, there hadn’t been time for long hikes because he was still working on the post office mural. In the end, he simply asked her over dinner in a booth at the diner. The irony of that gave him chest pains, and he put that vision out of his thoughts.

  Celia stopped at the edge of the trees and surveyed the scene. “Lonnie, it’s beautiful! Look—the fields in the valley are that brief yellow green of early spring. A week from now it’ll be gone. I can’t capture it on film, though. I wish I could.”