Silk and Stone

by Deborah Smith

  “Silk’s a kind of cloth, silly. My mom has a silk shirt, and my baby sister threw up on it.”

  “Well, when a ruby has light inside it, the light’s called silk too. And sometimes the silk makes a little star.”

  “I don’t see any star.”

  “You have to cut and polish the stone first. Besides, maybe this one has caught the middle of a star. A star so big you can’t see the ends of it. That’s what I think. And the light won’t ever go away.” That’s how I feel about us, he thought, but the feeling was too hard to say. He turned one of her hands palm-up and placed the stone in it. “So I’ll give it to you, so you’ll always have, hmmm, part of a star.”

  She uttered a low sigh of pleasure and closed her fingers around the stone. Sam suddenly thought about Mom’s diamond rock, the one Daddy gave her when they got married, and what Mom had said about Uncle William giving Aunt Alexandra the bad ruby when they got married. “You sure I’m supposed to get it?” she asked plaintively. “It’s not like Aunt Alexandra’s ruby, is it? You aren’t supposed to give it to somebody else?”

  “No.” He ducked his head and looked away, red spots climbing up his cheeks. “Just to you. It’ll always belong to you. Even if you live so far away it’s like another planet. Even in California.”

  She could barely breathe. “How’d you know the army’s sending us to live in California?”

  “I … heard about it somewhere.” He added gruffly, “California is in America at least.”

  “But it’s on the other side!”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’ll always know where you are.”

  She opened her hand and touched a fingertip to the ruby. “Does this mean we’re married?”

  His attention shot back to her. For a minute he didn’t say a word. Then he nodded. “Yes, I reckon that’s what we are.”

  “Why hasn’t Samantha come back?” Alexandra asked Frannie the question in a hushed, strained tone, as if Frannie had failed at motherhood. “You shouldn’t have let her go alone.”

  “She’s very mature for her age.” But Frannie twisted in her seat and scanned the packed church anxiously. She reminded herself that her sister was distraught. She didn’t want to argue with Alex at William’s funeral.

  “You treat her like a friend, not a child,” Alexandra continued. “You’ve let her become too independent.”

  “Alex, she only went to the bathroom, not to hitchhike around the world.”

  Frannie caught a glimpse of movement in the tiny balcony. Sam, feet dangling from the seat of a pew behind the white balustrade, peered down at her stoically. Sitting beside her with his feet planted firmly on the loft’s floor was a somber-faced boy whose vaguely exotic hair and features Frannie instantly recalled.

  Sammie, already, at the tender age of six, as strong-willed as a brick wall, had found and claimed her long-awaited prize. Frannie studied her daughter with pride, awe, and dread.

  “Mom.” Tim’s petulant, anguished whisper made Frannie look around quickly. Tim was watching the balcony too, and tugging on Alexandra’s sleeve. “Mom,” he repeated while the organist’s morbid rendition of “Amazing Grace” throbbed louder in the hot, still air. “Samantha’s upstairs with Jake.”

  Alexandra’s chalky face became a mask of fury. She swiveled gracefully in the pew, flashing Frannie a scalding stare, then riveting her gaze on the rebellious pair in the balcony. Inspired by the widow’s bizarre behavior, other people followed suit, until Frannie noted with rising alarm that most of the eyes in the church were fixed on Samantha and Jake. She glanced furtively across the aisle and met Sarah’s bleak gaze.

  The objects of the disruption seemed frozen in place, like deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming tractor-trailer. Frannie grabbed Alexandra’s clenched fist. It was cold and clammy. Frannie stared at her sister, who shivered violently. The minister had stepped to the altar behind William’s casket. He began speaking, but his words were a blank jumble to Frannie’s distracted senses, frightened by the electric rage and strange, unfathomable fear she saw in Alexandra’s face. “They’re not hurting anything,” Frannie whispered, pulling at her sister as delicately as she could. “Leave them alone. The service has started. Alex, calm down.”

  But Alexandra bolted to her feet and jerked her hand away from Frannie’s fervent grip. Her voice rang out. “Samantha, come down here, where you belong.”

  The astounding spectacle of Judge Vanderveer’s grieving widow shouting in the midst of his funeral service had the power to stop the minister’s voice, “Amazing Grace,” and every heartbeat in the sanctuary. Frannie felt cold sweat trickling down her back.

  Slowly, Samantha shook her head. Jake stared down at his aunt in black defiance. It was as if the two of them had merged into one force, an unspoken vow of alliance so poignant that a surge of maternal command faded in Frannie’s thoughts, and she wanted to cheer for them.

  But the spell snapped when Alexandra left the pew and strode up the central aisle. Frannie bolted after her. Sarah and Hugh were on their feet too, hurriedly following.

  They caught up with Alexandra as she reached the open doors to the vestibule. Frannie pushed in front of her, blocking her way. “My daughter,” Frannie said with garbled passion. “Mine. I say she stays where she is.” She broke down and added desperately, under her breath, “Alex, please go back to the front. Have you lost your mind?”

  “I’ll strangle him. I’ll strangle the little bastard for flaunting my own niece as if he owns her.”

  That remark brought audible gasps from the people in the back pews. A drama worthy of legend was unfolding before their eyes, an event that would weave its way into Pandora’s oral history for years to come.

  Sarah caught Alexandra’s arm. “You ruined my brother. You killed him just as surely as if you’d pushed him down those stairs with your own two hands. If you ever so much as lay a finger on my children, I’ll—”

  “Keep your quirky brats out of my life, you hear? Keep your son away from my niece.” They swayed together, Alexandra grabbing Sarah’s shoulders. Hugh pried an arm between them, and Frannie latched on to her sister’s waist with both hands.

  “We’re done,” Jake said.

  Everyone froze, Sarah jerked away from Alexandra and gazed at them with churning emotions. He and Samantha stood in the vestibule, at the bottom of the stairs. Two old souls, watching us as if we’re fools, Frannie thought, stunned. He turned to Samantha, looked down at her wearily, and said, “It may be a long time before we see each other again, but don’t worry. I’ll find you.”

  Samantha had tears in her eyes, but she smiled at him. “Okay. I’ll wait.”

  Samantha was gone—gone back to Germany with her mother—and Jake had to deal with his infamous reputation for disrupting Uncle William’s funeral alone. Rumor got around that he’d lured Samantha upstairs, that he’d hidden her there and bullied her into staying, so her mother and her aunt would be worried and have to go looking for her.

  Before long that gossip octopus had a hundred tentacles. He was practically a kidnapper, a bad influence. The principal even called him into the office for a lecture. He had, the principal said, the kind of attitude that could lead to dope smoking, flag burning, and draft dodging.

  Father’s patients gave him sour looks in the waiting room when he carried lunch to Father on Saturdays. The Presbyterian minister gave a sermon about the failing morals of youth, and the Baptists sent a lady to the Cove to ask Mother if she wanted to send him to their summer Bible camp. Mrs. Steinberg, the only Jewish person they knew, who ran one of the new dress boutiques in town, called to tell Mother and Father that Jake wasn’t nearly as embarrassing as her sister’s son in Atlanta, who had set off a stink bomb at his own cousin’s bar mitzvah.

  For their parts, Mother and Father were more puzzled than angry over what he’d done. Mother had her own part in the sorry drama to live down; everybody suspected she’d been one second away from punching her own brother’s widow in the face. She was
nearly sick with guilt over everything she wished she’d said and done while Uncle William was still alive. Jake and Ellie listened late at night to the muffled voices from the living room, and Mother’s sobs.

  Jake stared at his aunt across the polished conference table in the offices of Uncle William’s attorney. Beside him, Ellie waited with her hands wound in the skirt of her cotton dress. She fixed her gaze on Aunt Alexandra too.

  Mother, her face stony and her eyes glittering with disgust, sat next to Ellie. Father, big and calm and watchful, held one of her hands, rubbing the ball of his thumb over the back of it, trying to keep peace at the reading of the will.

  Jake’s grim attention moved to his cousin. Tim sat on a bench along the wall, his light red hair shagging over his forehead, his eyes droopy and despondent. He was nine, a year younger than Jake and Ellie, skinny and freckled, with a nervous habit of chewing his fingernails to the quick. Jake felt old by comparison. In his black suit, Tim looked like a kid dressed up to play a banker.

  Jake’s stomach twisted into knots of frustration. We can’t tell him what really happened to his father. We can’t tell him about his own mother. She’s all he’s got left.

  Uncle William’s attorney read a list of bequests—little impersonal things first—his law books for the town library, donations to two churches, a piece of land for a playground. Then, family matters: a silver pocket watch to Father, a prized antique rifle to Jake, a set of crystal vases to Ellie.

  Jake felt the tension climbing, as if the darkly paneled room were losing its air. Mother sat on the edge of her chair, staring into space, her expression tight with dignity. She’d told them she didn’t expect anything from her brother, that they would come here today regardless of the humiliation, because it was the only honor she could give him.

  There was no mention of Mother in the list the attorney recited. Finally, clearing his throat and smoothing the paperwork he held on a leather-bound ledger, he read a wordy passage that, at its core, left everything else he owned to Aunt Alexandra and Tim. Aunt Alexandra sighed, closed her eyes, and pressed her fingertips to her lips as if saying a silent prayer of thanks to Uncle William.

  Jake sank back in his chair, angry for his mother’s sake, wondering why in hell Uncle William had wanted her to listen to this.

  “With one exception,” the lawyer added, then hesitated. Clocks could have stopped on that second of waiting. The lawyer looked at Mother. “I ask my beloved sister for her forgiveness, and to her I leave what has always been hers. The Pandora ruby.”

  “Oh, William,” Mother said softly, and covered her face. Aunt Alexandra’s blue eyes flew open. Her fingers convulsed into a fist, and the fist hovered at her mouth. Father put his hand on Mother’s shoulder, as if holding her still. Ellie, mouth open, turned to Jake. They traded an astonished look.

  Aunt Alexandra gazed furiously at Mother, who lifted her head. The look Mother gave back was a silent shout of hatred and victory. “You took my brother away from everyone who loved and respected him,” Mother said in a low, icy voice. “You thought you owned him. But you didn’t. Dear God, you made it so hard for him to do what he knew was right that he had to die before he could admit it.”

  Aunt Alexandra lowered her fist to the table. Slowly she uncurled her fingers.

  “You’re the greedy one, Sarah. You’re the one who made William miserable. You shunned your own brother over a piece of jewelry.”

  “If I could throw it into a bottomless pit—if that would bring William back, I’d do it. I doubt you can say the same. Not honestly.” Mother’s distraught eyes flickered to Tim, who looked miserable. She inhaled sharply and looked at Aunt Alexandra again. “I’ve let you bring me down to your level. That’s my fault. But I’m done with you. Done. You’ve got the home I grew up in, and everything else. Fine. Tim deserves his father’s possessions. But for my children, and their children, and their grandchildren, I want my ruby. And I want it today.”

  Jake and Ellie were on the edges of their seats. Father said softly, “I’ll come by Highview this afternoon and pick it up. If my ancestors had known what damned misery it would bring, they’d have hidden it from human hands.”

  Aunt Alexandra stared at them without blinking, without giving an inch. “It was mine—a gift from William. You made me feel like an outsider. Like rich white trash not fit to be a Vanderveer. William gave me the ruby to make a statement. I belong here. And no one, not even his own jealous sister, can take that away from me.”

  “You don’t belong here,” Mother answered. “And the only jealousy I’ve felt is for my brother’s good sense and honor, both of which you corrupted.”

  Aunt Alexandra shuddered. “I buried it with him.”

  Mother gasped. Father, a muscle working in his cheek, leaned back slowly in his chair. Jake stared at his aunt with such intensity, he felt his eyes would burst. Beside him, Ellie gave a soft squeak.

  Mother was clutching the table. Father said something filthy under his breath and held her shoulders. His dark eyes could have burned holes in Aunt Alexandra. Jake’s head swam. He looked at Ellie numbly.

  Jake’s eyes shot to Tim. His cousin looked like a forgotten Howdy Doody puppet, his red hair ruffled around his chalk-white face, his eyes glazed. “They’re not gonna dig my dad up, are they?” he asked loudly. He jumped up and stumbled to his mother, and, crying, crumpled down beside her legs with his arms around her waist. “Aunt Sarah can’t dig Dad up, can she?”

  “I hope not.” Aunt Alexandra bent over him, holding him, stroking his hair. “No, I won’t let her do that.”

  Mother made a gagging sound. “You … you …” Her voice trailed off into words Jake could barely hear. You sick monster, was what Mother whispered.

  “No one will wear the ruby again,” Aunt Alexandra said, oozing sadness. “It’s where it belongs. Live with that, Sarah.”

  They eased through the cemetery with fearful resolve, glancing back through the big hickories and firs that surrounded the Vanderveer plots, sidestepping shadows cast by looming granite angels and tall tombstones. Jake shivered with a horror that bound his chest like an iron fist. Ellie skittered along with small strides, holding the end of her long black braid in one hand, as if she were ready to pull herself back to the safe road to town, beyond the trees.

  “Hurry,” she told Jake.

  They had detoured to the cemetery on their way from Father’s office to the grocery store on the other end of town, where Mother would be waiting after her shopping was done.

  “If I could fly, I sure would,” Jake answered. They broke into a trot up a low knoll, circled a cluster of tombstones, then plowed to a stop under a gnarled oak tree. Uncle William’s grave was marked with a mound of funeral flowers, a terribly colorful hump of wilting flowers and limp ribbons.

  They stood, paralyzed, staring down at it. “We have to touch it,” Jake said, his own voice sounding eerie to him. “For Mother’s sake. We gotta know.”

  Ellie exhaled. “I will, if you will—at the same time.”

  They squatted beside the flowers and, stealing looks at each other to make sure neither of them backed out, each slid a splayed hand under the flowers, into the soft, cold red dirt.

  Jake grimaced and shut his eyes. In his most terrible imaginings he dreaded feeling the ghosts of a hundred curious Vanderveers. Maybe they would seep underneath his hand like ground water, as if he were dowsing for a spot to dig a well, as he’d seen an old man do at Cawatie, once, with a pronged stick to guide the way. Maybe he’d strike a well full of spirits—the Vanderveer grandparents who’d died in a car wreck when Mother was not much older than him and Ellie, leaving her with Uncle William, who had given up his internship with a state supreme court judge in Raleigh to come home and take care of her.

  Or maybe he’d see Great-Aunt Melanie Vanderveer, who’d strangled on a peach pit one Fourth of July, while they were still babies. Or maybe Mack Lee Vanderveer, the second cousin who’d gotten burned to a crisp in a tank battle during
World War II.

  Jake didn’t want to encounter the toasted Mack Lee, most of all.

  But he felt nothing. Nothing. His eyes jerked open. He looked at Ellie. Her eyes were round green dots in her face. Her mouth was open, and she was staring into empty air.

  “Our ruby’s not down there,” she said like a sleepwalker. She blinked, pulled her hand away, and fell back on the mowed grass, pushing herself away from the grave fanny-first. Jake jammed his hand deeper into the soft dirt. “I can’t tell anything,” he said frantically. “Why can’t I know what you know? What’s wrong with me?”

  He hunched on his knees and pressed both hands into the grave. The blankness inside him was more frightening than any roaming Vanderveer ghosts might have been.

  “Maybe you’re thinking too hard,” Ellie said. “When I think too hard, I only get a headache.”

  “You’re sure it’s not down there?” He looked over his shoulder at her as he clawed at the dirt. She nodded firmly. Her eyes glittered. “She lied to Mother. She’s still got our ruby. My ruby.” The angry way Ellie said that made Jake twist toward her, frowning, his dirt-stained hands thrust out. “Your ruby?”

  “It’s supposed to be Mother’s, and then mine. I know the rules.” Her voice rose into a wail. “But I’ll die after I get it.” With that amazing statement she turned over and flung herself down with her face burrowed in the crook of one arm. “I’m going to die. I just know it.”

  Jake’s mouth had the bad taste that came from not quite throwing up. “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard,” he said finally. But his heart was thudding in his ears, and he felt dizzy. “Where’d you get that feeling?”

  “I don’t know.” She clenched her hands into fists. “I thought it. I don’t know why.”