“True.”
“Well, I just can’t believe that Tom would have turncoated unless somebody nudged him in that direction. You, perhaps?”
“Is that what you and David think?”
“I admit that David isn’t as convinced as I am.”
“And why are you so sure?”
“Because when you came to the mission after Tom was brought in wounded, I watched your face. Dr. MacNeill, you did a mighty poor job of hiding your surprise that it was Tom.”
The doctor threw back his head and laughed. “Upon my word, females do have good imaginations.”
“That was not imagination. You expected to find Nathan or Bird’s Eye wounded, but not Tom. Isn’t that right?”
“Christy, Christy—come now! The expression on my face was surprise all right, mixed with concern. I haven’t yet learned to take the shooting of my friends with professional nonchalance. No, I haven’t!”
Either he is a good actor, I found myself thinking, or else I have this man wrong. I knew I was outmatched but I pressed on anyway. “Then tell me why you’ve been so quiet recently. You’ve come in and out of the mission house with scarcely a word to anyone. Ordinarily, you’d have plenty of normal comments to make, I know you would. And then you blew off at David.”
“I’m sorry about that. David means well, but he’s too impulsive so he makes moves that don’t go down well with the mountain people.” The pipe still was not drawing to satisfy him. He relit it once more. “As for my silence—yes, sure, I’ve been preoccupied. This stilling business is bad. I want it straightened out as much as you do.”
“Dr. MacNeill, I have a feeling you think me officious to ask all these questions. But there’s one other reason why I’m asking them. You should know. Opal suggested it.”
“Opal asked you to question me?”
“That’s right. When I asked her if she knew why Tom got shot, she said ‘Ask the doctor.’ Then she clomped her lips shut and wouldn’t say another word.”
The doctor shook his head in dismay. “I’ll never understand the workings of a woman’s mind. It picks up all manner of fact and fiction and indiscriminately stitches the pieces together like a crazy quilt. Now you really are jumping to conclusions, Christy, without any facts at all.”
“Maybe. Only here are facts: Tom was shot by someone. Bird’s-Eye and Nathan are out of jail running around loose in these mountains. If one of them shot Tom, now they’re free to try it again. So if you really care about Tom and Opal, you’ll stop holding back any information that would help us protect Tom.”
He met my gaze unflinchingly. “Christy, I cared about Opal and Tom McHone long before you met them, while you were still in pinafores. I know a lot more about the Cove than you and David do. I suggest that both of you stick to your mission work.”
Totally nonplused now, I looked at Dr. McNeill long and hard trying to see through that stolid mask. No flicker of embarrassment or discomfiture showed through. He was actually enjoying sparring with me. But he’s too cool, too dispassionate, I concluded. I was more certain than ever that he knew things he was not telling. Meanwhile, he sat there smoking, not saying another word, while wraiths of smoke drifted past my head. But something in his tone when he had referred to the mission nettled me.
“I’m curious about one more thing, Dr. MacNeill. You don’t believe in what we’re doing at the mission, do you?”
He turned the palms of his hands outward in an expressive gesture. “Don’t believe in? What do you mean by an expression like that? Can you be more definite?”
“What I mean is,” I explained, “you’ve carefully detached yourself from any real involvement with the church or the mission work. Your attitude comes through clearly as ‘the church, that’s for other people—not for me.’ You don’t think religion has anything to offer you, do you? And you don’t have one tiny speck of vision about all the great work the mission could be heading into, if we got some solid help. Do you?” I was gathering steam as I went and the doctor seemed surprised at my vehemence. He was looking at me with a new kind of interest.
“That’s quite a bundle of charges and questions,” he said thoughtfully. “I’m willing to try to answer them. But first, tell me what your vision is, Christy. I’d like to know that.”
Since his tone held no teasing or facetiousness, I answered with equal seriousness, “That’s not hard. I’m full of ideas and dreams. To begin with, for the school we need two more teachers right away, more space, the beginning of a school library.
“Then during the winter months, quite a few pupils simply can’t make it to school through the snow. We now have the money in hand for the start of a small boarding school setup. We’re going to put it in that big loft of a room on the third floor of the mission house.
“Then there are grown-ups who’d give anything to learn to read and write. I’ve taught Fairlight Spencer and now I’m beginning with Opal McHone. But there are lots more. That means some adult classes.
“The women need housekeeping help too. These rustic mountain cabins could be made beautiful—like Miss Alice’s. She’s shown the way. I’m brimful of ideas about that. For example, the ancestors of these women had real knowledge of herbery in their English and Scottish gardens. We could start herb gardens again, then that could be used as a spark toward teaching them good cooking. You know, something better than their greasy food and their sauerkraut. Weaving, quilting, canning, preserving; cabinetmaking for the men—all that’s in their background. This could lead to trade schools of some sort.”
I knew that my enthusiasm was carrying me away, but this was the first chance to tell anybody about the ideas that had been bubbling up like fizz water. “Then there’s the clinic—we’ve got to get started on that right away. That involves you, of course. There we can give the school children their inoculations, centralize your work so you don’t have to spend so much of your time on the road. Maybe some of the trachoma operations could be done here, so you don’t have to cart whole groups of people to Lyleton so many Saturdays. We could set up classes for mothers to teach them how to take care of their babies.
“Then there’s music and recreation—the ballads, the tall tales, the old dances. There what I see is—”
The doctor was staring at me with such a mixture of interest and delight that suddenly, I became self-conscious. “I guess I’m getting a little off the track—”
“No, I think those are all great ideas for the mission. And I like your enthusiasm. But from what I hear from Alice Henderson and David, this isn’t their total definition of Christianity in action.”
“No, of course not,” I said, uncertain of my ground now. “Of course, there’s belief. Action wouldn’t be any good without believing in something or Someone.”
“And the purpose of the mission is to get people believing in all these Christian doctrines?” the doctor asked.
“Well, yes. I suppose so.”
“But what if the people don’t want to believe these things? Does this mean that they can’t send their children to the school or get help in beautifying their homes?”
“No. The mission doesn’t force people to believe anything. You know Miss Alice better than that.”
“Then why don’t you just concentrate on the school and the good works and forget all about the religious doctrines that just confuse the people anyway?”
I knew there was a good answer for that question, but I could not think of it at the moment. So I tried the doctor’s tactics: I evaded an answer by asking him a question. “Dr. MacNeill, what do you believe in?”
“You’re stuck on that vague phrase, aren’t you? Are you asking me what my philosophy of life is?”
“Well, yes. What is it?”
“I believe in God, in the sense that I’m willing to admit some starter-force for the universe. And I believe that love is the most creative force in the world. Trouble is, I’ve seen so many diseased bodies, so much suffering, pain, hatred, death and dying. Alice Hende
rson is always talking about a loving God who’s concerned about people as individuals. I can’t quite go along with that, else He wouldn’t let our world be so awash in trouble and suffering. I suppose the truth must lie somewhere in between believing in nothing and the elaborate case the Christians have built up.” He waved his pipe airily. “But this is much too serious a discussion for a girl like you.”
I chose to ignore that. “You said ‘the case that the Christians have built up’ as if you aren’t one of us. Is that right? You don’t consider yourself a Christian, Dr. MacNeill?”
“No-o—come to think of it, I don’t suppose I do. It never seemed important one way or the other.”
“But what if it turns out to be the most important thing there is?”
“How? Why? Why is it important to you, Christy?”
“Well, if—That is—” desperately I tried to sort out my thoughts. If only I could express what I felt. Here was a great chance to win this scientific mind to real belief. That could be important, because Dr. MacNeill was so looked up to in the community with so many chances to help people.
“Miss Alice is just so great,” I began, the words tumbling over one another. “She’s the greatest person I’ve ever known. I wish you could have heard her the other day teaching a Bible class at the church. It was really good. She was telling about how the church has been the custodian of this precious truth for over two thousand years, but about how lots of people don’t get this truth because it’s hidden—you know, hidden like a treasure in a field or leaven in a lump of dough, with meanings that you can take several ways, such as in parables and all, and about how once we begin to understand all this, it just makes our lives over, that’s all. And Miss Alice went on to say that—”
The doctor rose to his feet and stretched his big frame. “Christy,” his voice was gentle, “I did not ask you what Alice Henderson believes or for a résumé of her latest talk to her Bible class. I wanted to know why Christianity is important to you, what you believe—” He went to the stove, opened the door, and tamped out his pipe. “What’s your working philosophy of life?”
Since he was emptying his pipe, then he must be getting ready to leave and I still had not said anything impressive. My philosophy? What was my philosophy? How could I think under pressure like this? He was standing there looking at me, waiting for my answer.
“Well—I believe that God made us with a free choice. We can choose for Him or against Him, decide to go His way—or—or not—”
“And what does that mean? For instance, how will that affect a situation like Tom’s, one way or the other?”
“It affects it, I suppose, because evil is very real and very powerful and some of us have been living in an ivory tower and—”
“You’re quoting again, I don’t know from whom—probably Alice Henderson again. Let’s stop mouthing platitudes. The original question was, why is Christianity important to you?”
I was messing this up and I did not know how to retrieve it. I could have cried with disappointment at my ineptness. But why did this man have to be so cruel, so everlastingly superior? He had won this round, no question about it. The whole thing. Every bit of it. He knew how to turn every word I said to his advantage.
My frustration suddenly boiled over. “All right, be sarcastic about what Miss Alice believes, make fun of what all of us believe. You learned better in medical school, I suppose. Religion is for frustrated people or not-quite-normal people. Spiritual solutions to any of the problems around here aren’t real solutions, you think. You’re a realist, a red-haired, broad-shouldered, barrel-chested realist, so nothing religion has to offer can hold a candle to hard cash and a loaded shotgun and a box of pills—or some of your medicine in a bottle. That is what you think, isn’t it? Isn’t it—?” I was furious at him and I didn’t care a bit. Hot tears stung my eyes. To keep him from seeing, I jumped to my feet and turned my back on him.
“Let it pour out, Christy. I don’t blame you. But this is the real you talking now, not some character you’re trying to be. You have fire in you, and I like fire in a woman.”
His coolness nettled me more than ever. I whirled to face him. He was giving me that same measured look—and I wanted to slap his face or pound my fists on his chest because he made me feel like a ten-year-old child, and I hated that feeling—and I hated him. I wanted—I wanted—I didn’t have the least idea what I wanted. I turned and fled.
It was that old dream of mine about being forced to walk the open railroad trestle suspended high over swirling water. In my dream, the pit of my stomach was contracting in fear. I was balancing myself, struggling foot by foot across the trestle, when I heard a voice calling me. An unknown hand was shaking me by the shoulder. The dream-fear exploded into consuming terror. Desperately, I fought to ward off the rough hands. But in the struggle I was losing my balance. I was toppling headfirst into the swirling water.
“Miz Christy—please. Please wake up. Miz Christy, we need you. Some men are on the porch. They’re a-tryin’ to break in.”
The last words snapped the sequence of the dream and I plummeted back into consciousness. Words reverberated, “Men trying to break in—” It was Ruby Mae’s voice, Ruby Mae’s hand shaking me, Ruby Mae standing there, quiet frenzy in her voice and manner.
Thoroughly awakened now, I sat up in bed. “Ruby Mae, how do you know someone’s trying to break in?”
“I heered them foolin’ outside the house. Woke me up. I’m skeered. What’ll we do?”
“But you’re certain they’re trying to get inside the house?”
“I’m shore. They’ve been a-tryin’ doors.”
“Then let’s wake up Tom. He’s well enough to help now.”
“No use. Gone. He’s lit a rag for home.”
So that was it. I had called a good night to Tom before going to bed. He must have crept home sometime after that. Well, we had been expecting it. But if only he had waited just one more night—until David got back from Knoxville.
Suddenly a thought struck me. “Ruby Mae, one door must be open, the one Tom left by.”
“Fixed that. Crawled to the back door and shot the bolt acrost just afore the men got thar.”
“Good girl!” I grabbed my wrapper, swung my feet to the floor. In the upstairs hall we found Miss Ida standing like a frozen statue at the head of the stairs. In the inky blackness I could just barely make out the contours of her white face with the braids of hair hanging dark against her nightgown. She whispered, “Are they after Tom, I wonder? Or could they be those strange men we’ve been seeing around here?” She did not wait for an answer, but padded softly down the stairs for a closer look.
As Ruby Mae and I stood there listening, I was thinking about Miss Ida’s questions. If that was Bird’s-Eye and his friends outside, then no doubt they would think Tom still inside. In that case, they would probably challenge us to send him out to them. And how could we ever persuade them through the locked door that Tom was no longer here? Then too, if they had been drinking, as would be likely, how could we hope to handle them once we opened the door? Most of our Cutter Gap men were courteous and manageable except when they’d been pouring mountain dew down their throats, though of course a man like Bird’s-Eye was unpredictable at any time.
But if these were the North Carolina men David thought were somehow connected with the still in our Cove, then what? Miss Alice had told how men trying to escape indictment in North Carolina often crossed the border to hide out on the Tennessee side, and we were only fifteen miles from the state line. Whether moonshiners or not, often these escapees were desperate men, sometimes murderers wanted by both the police and the revenue agents. And here we were, three women alone. On any ordinary night with David sleeping in his bachelor quarters bunkhouse, we felt safe enough. He was only a few hundred feet away. A raised window, a woman’s voice in the night, and he would hear and come instantly. But David was still away. And while we had the telephone, the closest contact point by phone was El Pano
or Lyleton.
We heard steps on the porch—soft, furtive. Muffled whispering. Obviously there were several men out there. Yet they sounded too quiet for drunk men. As always, night sounds seemed thunderous; each time we moved the floor boards creaked beneath our feet.
As I peered into the lower hall, my eyes caught the faintest glimmer of brass; the knob of the front door was being turned quietly in someone’s hand. I thought of how loosely all the doors were hung and of the flimsy locks and catches. Almost any tool could pry off those hinges, any strong shoulder crashing against that door would bring it down. And I had heard of men shooting hinges off a door. Could they really do that? And of course, they could break window-glass.
Suddenly the prowlers cut loose. A bawdy voice rang out, “Hey, open up. We’uns aim to git in thar.” This was followed by raucous laughter and pounding on the door with what sounded like the butt of a gun.
Now that all pretence of stealth was gone, we leapt into action. Miss Ida stood at the foot of the stairs snorting, “I don’t care who they are, maybe they will break the door down. But come on, let’s make it hard for them.”
As of one mind, Ruby Mae and I bounded down the stairs and began dragging a bookcase toward the front door. Soon we had added chairs and the piano bench which we heaped against the door to barricade it. Then we started in on the back door. The dining room table with chairs piled atop it made an even better barrier there. By now we no longer cared about how much noise we were making in moving all this.
Having assembled almost every moveable piece of furniture in front of the doors, we paused to listen again. The men had left the porch and were standing at the side of the house, apparently arguing among themselves. Ruby Mae and I crept to one of the windows to listen.
“Ye’re a keerless woodscolt and I’m a-gonna crack yer bones,” we heard . . . “Not till hell freezes over” . . . “Shet yer dirty mouth” . . . then the sound of scuffling feet and a hoarse cry.
Miss Ida was tugging at us. “We’re wasting time. They’re just having their own type of consultation before trying again. Come on, let’s scout to see what we can use for weapons in case they do break down one of the doors or come in through a window.”
Christy Page 33
