Mary looked closer. Strawberries were the traditional gift given when erring Cherokee males wanted to get back in their girlfriends’ good graces. According to legend, the succulent, heart-shaped little berries could mollify the angriest woman. Never, though, had Mary seen anybody wearing them as jewelry. “Your boyfriend’s very talented,” she said. “Is he Cherokee?”
“Yes. He carves all sorts of things and sells them at the hardware store.” The girl smiled shyly. As she turned to go back to the kitchen, Mary suddenly had an idea. If the waitress’s Cherokee boyfriend was selling his wares in town, why couldn’t she? She called the girl back.
“Say—do you happen to know if there’s any office space for rent around here?”
“Office space?” The girl twisted her necklace, thinking. “There’s an apartment for rent over the furniture store. And a whole building where the dry cleaners used to be.”
Mary shook her head. “No, just an office. A couple of hundred square feet would do.”
The girl’s face brightened. “Try Main Street. There used to be some space over Sutton’s Hardware. A friend of mine tried to rent a room there for his band to practice in, but the landlord freaked out about the noise.”
“Do you know who this landlord is?”
“Some kind of therapist,” the girl said quickly. “She’s got an office up there, too.”
“Thanks,” Mary said. “Thanks a lot.”
“No problem.” The girl smiled, but Mary again saw that shadow of sadness cloud her startling green eyes.
Mary finished her tea, and left the girl a nice tip. Feeling a little more hopeful, she jammed her feet back in her shoes and headed down to Main Street. Just as the waitress said, between Sutton’s Hardware and the bank stood a freshly painted white door with a brass nameplate beside it. The plate had space for four names, but only two were filled. One by a Dana Smithson Shope, licensed clinical psychologist, the other by something called Smoky Mountain Defenders. Okay, thought Mary as she opened the door and walked up a narrow flight of stairs. Here goes nothin’.
At the top of the steps, four doors opened onto a wide landing. The psychologist had the office directly in front of the stairs, while the Smoky Mountain Defenders were holed up behind the door to the right. Remembering what the waitress had told her, she walked over to the psychologist’s door and knocked softly.
“Come in!” came the immediate reply.
Mary opened the door. A small woman with curly dark hair sat on a desk, her short tennis dress revealing tanned, well-toned thighs. Two tennis racquets leaned against the wall, next to a wire basket of practice balls.
“Hi,” began Mary, noticing that the rest of the room looked rather like an enormous toy box. An array of stuffed animals was scattered among two huge dollhouses, along with a bookshelf crammed with brightly colored books, and a diminutive artist’s easel in one sunny corner. “I understand you might have some office space available?”
“That depends.” The woman lifted an eyebrow. “What kind of office are you looking for?”
Mary thought of J. T. Turnipseed, drilling a hundred bucks out of her bank account every day. “I guess inexpensive would be the operative word.”
The woman laughed. “No, I mean what kind of business are you in?” She gestured toward her toy box of an office. “I need to keep it quiet up here. I work with kids a lot, plus I do a bit of hypnotherapy.”
“A law practice,” Mary ventured, the words feeling foreign on her tongue.
The woman looked doubtful. “I don’t know. I’ve done divorce counseling before. People cry, yell. Once a man said he was going to kill every lesbian in North Carolina, starting with me.” She shook her head. “I don’t think a law practice would work out.”
“But I don’t do divorces,” said Mary.
“So what kind of law do you do?”
“I don’t know.” Mary felt her face grow red as the woman waited for a response. “I mean I’m not sure. I’m kind of waiting for a position to open up on the DA’s staff. Until then, I thought I might open my own shop. Just do general legal work.”
“Like what?”
Mary shrugged. “I don’t know. Wills. House closings. Business incorporations. Quiet things. I promise.”
The woman frowned at Mary a moment, then she stepped over to a bookshelf and fished a set of keys out of a green ceramic jar marked CARES AND WOES. “I’ll show you the space, but I doubt you’ll want it.”
She led Mary across the landing, to the door next to the Smoky Mountain Defenders.
“The best you can say about this room is that it has a wonderful view,” she explained as she fumbled with the key, then pushed the door open.
Mary stepped inside. The room had white stucco walls and wide plank floors, and was lit by a huge bay window that stretched almost floor to ceiling, allowing a panoramic view of the south side of Main Street. A single light fixture dangled from a thick cord in the middle of the twelve-foot ceiling, and though the room probably wouldn’t have measured more than twelve by twelve, it had a spacious turn-of-the-century ambiance that brought to mind Model T Fords and Scott Joplin rags. Mary could almost picture Clarence Darrow in a room like this, filling his fountain pen, scribbling notes about how to save Leopold and Loeb from the electric chair.
“It’s pretty small,” the woman said. “It probably doesn’t even have enough space for your books.”
“Dana?” A deep male voice boomed into the room. “What’s going on?”
Mary turned to see a man standing in the open doorway. Big and pot-bellied, he had gray hair that looked as if he’d combed it with an egg beater. Must be one of the Smoky Mountain Defenders, she thought, noting the standard uniform of Appalachian hippies—faded jeans, a flannel shirt, and nicely battered Merrell boots. This one even carried a walking stick, complete with a little bell on top to scare away bears.
“Hi, Sam.” A note of exasperation crept into the psychologist’s voice. “I’m showing this office. What can I do for you?”
“You’re not renting this space are you?”
She crossed her arms. “I might be. Why?”
“Because I want it. I need it for storage.”
She frowned. “Sam, we had this conversation three months ago. You opted out of the deal.”
“I did not.” The man aimed a withering glare at Mary. “I said I needed to think about it.”
“You said my price was outrageous, Sam,” said the psychologist.
“How much is it?” Mary interrupted, irked by the man’s arrogance.
The woman shrugged. “I told Sam three hundred a month. I suppose I could do the same for you.”
“Does that include utilities? Do I have to rent a parking space?”
“Parking’s on your own. Utilities are included, plus Sylvia, the clerk from the hardware store downstairs, comes and cleans the landing and delivers our mail.”
Mary pulled out her checkbook. “I’ll take it.”
“But Dana!” the man protested.
“Sorry, Sam.” The psychologist held up one hand. “You told me three months ago that you definitely did not want this space. Now meet your new next-door neighbor. I think she might be an attorney.”
“Hunnff!” With a single derisive snort, Sam stomped out, slamming the door so hard that a chip of plaster fell from the ceiling.
Mary blinked, stunned by the man’s rudeness. “Is he always that friendly?”
The psychologist shrugged again, unperturbed. “That’s just Ravenel. Beneath that gruff exterior beats the heart of a fascist pig, but Sam’s basically harmless.” She glanced at her watch. “Look, I’ve got to get going. Shall we sign a lease now, or would you rather think about this overnight? I’m afraid Ravenel comes with the deal.”
“I’d like to sign now, if you’ve got the time.” Mary didn’t want to risk the Smoky Mountain Defender talking his way into here, overnight.
They recrossed the landing, returning to the office with the huge dollhouses.
>
“So do you treat just kids?” Mary eyed a single long, adult-sized leather couch.
“Mostly.” The woman laughed. “Adult Pisgah Countians seem to regard psychotherapy right up there with witch doctoring and alien abductions.” She rummaged through a drawer, then pulled out a preprinted lease. “By the way—my name’s Dana Shope.”
“I’m Mary Crow.”
“That’s C-r-o-w-e, right?”
“C-r-o-w. No e on the end.”
“Sorry.” Dana crossed out the e she’d already written. “I figured you were from the reservation.” She looked at the lease and chuckled. “You and Sam will make two birds up here, a Raven and a Crow.”
“Lucky us,” said Mary, without enthusiasm.
Dana filled out the rest of the lease and handed Mary a pen. “Want to try six months at first, just to see how things work out?”
“Suits me.” Mary nodded.
With the exception of the crossed-out e at the end of her name, Dana had filled out everything else in a neat, almost calligraphic hand. Quickly, Mary read it through twice, then signed it and wrote out a check for three hundred dollars.
“I really appreciate this.” Mary smiled. “I know I kind of twisted your arm.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” replied Dana cheerfully. “Most of the lawyers keep to that little tight-ass legal ghetto next to the courthouse. It’ll be fun to have a renegade in the building. You don’t happen to play tennis, do you?”
“A little. But when I grew up here, the nearest courts were over at the college, in Cullowhee.”
“They built two here, last year, behind the high school. They’re small and unlit, but they’ve begun to stock balls and racquets at the hardware store next door. If you ever want to play, give me a call.”
“Sure.” Mary smiled. “I’d like that.”
“Great.” Dana grabbed her racquets and headed out the door. “Well, it’s been a pleasure, Mary. I’ll look forward to having you up here.”
“Me, too.” Mary watched as Dana hurried down the stairs, then she walked across the landing to survey her new domain. She would need a telephone and a desk, and a couple of chairs for people to sit in, but she might be able to scrounge most of that from Irene’s attic. She sighed. Though it wasn’t the legal career she’d hoped for, she’d at least gotten herself a base of operations. Now all she had to do was figure out what kind of law to practice and how to get some clients coming in the door.
4
Deke Keener sat on a bench beneath the magnolia tree that bloomed in the front yard of the Baptist Church. Overstuffed with food and camaraderie from the Chamber of Commerce’s Beautification Committee luncheon, he was supposed to be taking a walking tour of downtown Hartsville to decide which of the city’s trees might need the attention of Sean Doak, their resident arborist. He’d checked the big basswood in front of the bank and the two tulip trees that shaded the front of the funeral home, but when he’d come to First Baptist’s magnolia, he’d stopped. The old tree was just beginning to bloom—creamy white blossoms were scenting the air with a heady Southern sweetness that took him back to the summer when he was four.
“Yours is funny-looking! Let me see it up close.” Vivian is her name. She is five, visiting from next door. They are playing in his bedroom, with the door shut.
“Only if I can see yours, too.” He balks, unwilling to have Vivian boss him around his own house.
“Okay. Come lie down on the bed.”
He hops over, his underpants down around his ankles, and stretches out next to her. She still wears her shorts; a green Scooby Doo bandage covers a scrape on her left knee.
“It looks like a little hot dog.” She looks at his penis more closely than he himself ever has, then tugs it, as if it were a rubber band. “Does that hurt?”
It does, but he would die before he’d admit that to Vivian. He squirms away from her. “Let me see yours.”
He watches, eyes wide, as she wiggles out of her underpants. His heart sinks. She’s got nothing to see! Just a slit, as if her butt had cracked far more seriously than normal. He is shocked. He expected a grander version of his own equipment, just the way his mother’s full bouncy breasts exaggerated his father’s flat chest.
“Where is it?”
“It’s inside,” Vivian says, as if he’s stupid. Hers looks like nothing he’s ever seen before—a shriveled little thing that smells like something rotten.
“That’s it?” he asks, incredulous.
“Yes,” she replies, as if he’s hopelessly stupid. “Men kiss women down there. I’ve seen my parents do it.”
He stares at it, unable to imagine his mother having one of these, much less his father kissing it.
“Kiss me there, Deke.”
“No way!” He is repulsed—her thing reminds him of the tiny end of a slimy asparagus spear his mother once insisted that he eat.
“Go on! I dare you! I double dare you!”
Though the idea makes him want to vomit, his honor is on the line. He leans over and touches her with his tongue. He hears her giggle, then he jumps as someone opens his door.
“What the hell are you two doing?”
He leaps off the bed, sick with fear. His father’s brother, his mean uncle Mark, stands there. Mark’s home from college, sharing his room for the summer. He points at them and starts laughing. “Look at little Deke! No! Little Dick! Hahahahaha!” His laughter fills the room, the house, the whole world. Soon his mother will come in here and catch them with their pants down. She will spank him for sure, right here in front of Vivian. He drops to the floor, humiliated, scrambling for his shorts, but Mark grabs him and throws him back on the bed. Vivian is terrified, just staring at Mark, not even trying to cover herself. “Since you two are so curious, I’m gonna give you an anatomy lesson.” Mark’s unzipping his pants. “I’m gonna show you how grownups really do it.”
“Coach Keener? Are you okay?”
He opened his eyes. Kayla Daws, a chunky, tomboyish eleven-year-old, stood beside him. She wore shorts and a pink Keener Kats T-shirt, and a look of alarm on her freckled face. He was sweating—the memory of that long-ago day still made his stomach churn. Breathing hard, he held up his hand for a congenial Keener Kats slap, hoping Kayla wouldn’t notice the clamminess of his palm. The little girl’s small hand banged against his like a bird flying into a pane of glass.
“Hey, Kayla,” he said. “What brings you downtown?”
“I had to go to the dentist,” Kayla reported, holding up a clear plastic bag that contained a complimentary toothbrush and a small tube of toothpaste. “Got my teeth cleaned.”
“Let me see.” Deke cupped her chin while she displayed all her teeth to brilliant advantage. He gazed at them with exaggerated scrutiny, peering this way and that, slyly pressing his forearm against the girl’s developing breasts. Never would she be as compelling as her sister. Thick-boned where Bethany was slender, brown-haired where she was blond, Kayla was twice the ballplayer Bethany had been, but none of the junior-high vixen. He’d pictured himself with her a thousand times and never had he felt the slightest twinge of desire. He’d hoped to work his way from sibling to sibling, but the chemistry was just not there. For him, Kayla Daws held as little interest as a full-grown woman. “Man, those choppers are so bright I’m having to squint,” he finally told her. “Did you have any cavities?”
“Nope!” said Kayla, dancing backward. “Now I don’t have to go back until December.”
“Your folks are going to be real proud. Cavities are expensive.” Deke held up his hand for another slap, wishing that Kayla looked just a little like her sister Bethany. “I think an accomplishment like that deserves a reward. May I buy you an ice cream?”
Kayla grinned. As always, her smile was too bright, too easily given. “Sure!”
He stood and put an arm around her shoulders. Together they crossed Main Street and walked over to the Dairy Dip that operated March through November. Business had been brisk today, with lots of li
ttle girls lining up for chocolate-dipped cones and banana splits. Watching all those long little legs and tight little asses was one of his favorite pastimes.
“What’ll it be, Kayla?” he asked when they reached the window.
“A hot fudge sundae?” She looked up at him, coy.
“Absolutely.” Deke turned to the boy behind the counter.
A few minutes later, they strolled down Main Street, spooning hot fudge into their mouths. Other kids passed them like a line of ants, ogling Kayla’s treat with open envy.
“So what are you up to the rest of this afternoon?” asked Deke.
“I’m supposed to meet Bethany at Bayberry’s and wait for Mom to pick us up.” Kayla licked chocolate off her plastic spoon.
“I thought Bethany went out with her boyfriend after work.”
“No, they broke up.”
“Really? How come?” Deke leaned closer. This was a new wrinkle in the Daws’ tortuous family saga, though he’d warned Glenn Daws about letting his rebellious daughter spend so much time with that young Cherokee buck. “I know how Bethany has made your lives hell already,” he’d told Glenn as they’d played the back nine at Wolf Crossing. “If you let her start bringing a steady boyfriend home, you’re just going to double your misery.”
“Think so?” Big dumb Glenn had looked at him with the same trust he’d first seen years ago, when he’d hired the guy off the unemployment line in Charlotte.
“Trust me on this one, buddy.” Deke had slapped his back before he teed up his ball. “You’re too close to see it. If I were you, I’d nip this little romance in the bud.”
Apparently, Glenn had done exactly as Deke had suggested.
“Daddy told Ridge not to come around anymore,” Kayla was saying as she scraped hot fudge from her ice cream. “Bethany got real mad. Started calling Mom and Dad terrible names. Then she locked herself in her room.”
“Sounds bad,” Deke commiserated, marveling at how easily he led Glenn Daws around by the nose.
“It was awful,” agreed Kayla. “Mom started yelling back at her, telling her how she’d made us all miserable for the last six years and how we were just counting the days before she went to college.”
Legacy of Masks Page 4
