After Granny left for church, her words buzzed around inside Glory’s head like a droning insect. Ask for help . . . Clear look at the past . . . the past . . . the past . . . Ask for help . . .
She didn’t want to capture them and hold them still long enough to examine any truth they might carry. And the only way Glory had ever been able to shut off her mind was to push her body. So she climbed out of bed, pulled on a pair of shorts, T-shirt, and tennis shoes, put her hair up in a ponytail, took three of Granny’s generic over-the-counter pain relievers, filled a bottle with water, and went out the front door.
She stretched her sore shoulders and back before she descended the steps. She had intended to go out for a fast-paced walk, but as she looked out on the vast greenness surrounding Granny’s house, she decided on a longer hike; it was going to take a lot of physical activity to drown out Granny’s words.
After running back inside and dashing off a quick note to explain her absence and switching to hiking boots, she headed off on the path she and Granny had taken when they went to the raspberry bramble.
When she reached the little white church, she paused. It sat on a narrow road that stopped at the church and graveyard. Beyond this point, she would follow a path through the woods. The entrance to the trail was just beyond the vehicles parked across the end of the road.
There were a dozen or so cars and pickups in the crushed-stone parking lot. Of course, Granny’s wasn’t among them; she’d walked to church nearly every Sunday of her life. It surprised Glory that, after all of her years away from this church, she recognized so many of the vehicles: there was Blackwell’s Ford crew-cab truck parked in the shade at the end of the road. BJ, Mr. Blackwell’s brown-and-white bird dog, sat panting in the bed—Mr. Blackwell couldn’t get in that truck without BJ jumping in the back, so the dog went everywhere with him. Next to that truck was an eighties-era Ford station wagon with imitation wood grain on the sides. Glory recognized it as belonging to Denzelle Hibbard; her husband had died of cancer right after he bought that car, leaving her with very little insurance and six young children. And surprisingly, next to Mrs. Hibbard’s car was cousin Charlie’s old gray-and-red Suburban.
Charlie had always been more interested in Saturday night hell-raising than Sunday morning worship. Granny must have stayed after him until he relented—the woman could be like water on stone, slowly, carefully wearing away any resistance to what she deemed right. When Glory had gone to church with Gran, there had been very few Sundays when Charlie made an appearance on the inside of those walls. And on the few occasions he’d been coerced into coming—say, a family baptism or Easter holiday—he’d propped himself in the back pew and fought a losing battle to keep his bloodshot eyes open. It had been Glory’s job to sit next to him and keep him from snoring.
Glory’s mother had stopped going to their church in town after Glory’s father died. Granny had worried for Glory’s eternal soul; so for nearly as long as she could remember, Glory had gone to church with Granny. It was a habit that lasted until Glory had married Andrew. After that, she joined the Harrison family at the stately United Methodist church at the corner of Commerce and Abigail Streets, the same church in which she’d been married.
Glory remembered being a new bride sitting next to her husband in the fifth row on the right-hand side of the sanctuary, the Harrison pew. She had missed the robust sincerity of Granny’s little church, where heartfelt “Amens” occasionally rose in agreement to the sermon, instead of only at the appropriately programmed times in the orderly Methodist service.
That first Sunday, Andrew had leaned close to her ear and whispered, “Quite a bit different from the snake handlers and faith healers out in the hollow, eh?”
He’d made Granny’s wholesome little church seem like something to be ashamed of, as if the members were the equivalent of some bizarre cult. It shamed Glory to this day that she’d just smiled and let it go instead of setting him right.
As she stood in the hot parking lot, there was a hitch in Glory’s chest. That was always the way I dealt with Andrew—avoiding confrontation, convincing myself that there was no reason to argue over the little, insignificant things.
Why did that thought, coming as fresh as the new day, bring with it a feeling of revelation?
A smattering of goose bumps covered her arms in spite of the powerful sun in which she stood. There was more to that memory, but it was hiding around a sharp corner.
Instead of forcing herself to look around that corner, Glory stared at the church, thinking of sitting next to Granny. On hot mornings like this one, Glory remembered making little fans out of the offering envelopes.
As always in the summer, the front door at the top of the wooden steps was open, and the windows were raised in hope of a breeze. A chorus of voices suddenly rose in praise and tumbled out the openings. For a long moment, Glory stood listening, letting the memories of childhood simplicity soothe her. She closed her eyes and tilted her face to the sun.
She nearly jumped out of her skin when a voice said, “I figured you’d be inside.”
She spun around and saw Eric Wilson walking toward her from an old stump at the edge of the woods beside the entrance to the cemetery. She felt a wash of guilt at being caught in the parking lot swaying to the hymn, just as if she’d been trying to take something that wasn’t hers or peeping in someone’s window.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Tula’s phone is still out. It’ll be at least Tuesday before the road is open again. I rode the bike up here to see how you are—and if you two need anything.” He lifted a shoulder as he said it, as if it were no big deal. Then he said, “So, why aren’t you?”
Her mind was still trying to absorb his presence. “Why aren’t I what?” she asked, trying not to sound like an idiot.
“Inside. Can’t imagine Tula letting you miss church.”
“I suppose I could ask you why you’re not in church yourself.” She crossed her arms over her chest—the best defense is always a good offense.
“Never been a churchgoer. I like to let the wind carry my prayers from my motorcycle.”
“Sounds like an excuse you’ve made up so you can ride it on Sunday mornings.”
He gave her a crooked smile. “Might be. But you shouldn’t knock it until you’ve tried it. It’s very therapeutic.”
Glory remembered the exhilarating feel of cruising along, her arms wrapped around Eric’s waist—and didn’t think that thrill had anything to do with the motorcycle.
Before she gathered herself for another glib comment, he narrowed his eyes and asked, “Why are you here, if you’re not going in?”
“Just passing by. I’m going on a hike.”
“Ah. Good to know you’re not wearing those shoes to church,” he said with a chuckle as he eyed her scuffed boots. Then he said, “Where are you going?”
She hesitated. “Nowhere in particular.”
He bored a hole in her with his eyes. That hesitation had been her mistake, now he was suspicious. “You know you should always let someone know where you are—in case of . . . an emergency.”
She had to keep in mind, Eric’s job was saving people from such emergencies. He wasn’t very likely to give up and wave her on with a smile. “I’m going to Blue Falls Pond.”
“Alone?” He looked disapproving.
“Done it a hundred times,” she said confidently.
“Not two days after you drove your car off the mountain.”
“I’m fine.”
He took another step closer and fixed his gaze on the bruise on her cheek. “I’ll bet the one from the shoulder harness is ten times worse.”
“Luckily I walk with my feet and legs.”
His gaze traveled to her bare knee.
“See, your doctoring did the trick,” she said, trying to lighten the feel of his gaze on her. “No swelling at all.” She flexed the joint to demonstrate its agility.
“It’s purple,” he said flatly. He lo
cked gazes with her again, and she felt like there was a little hiccup stuck in her chest. The sun glinted off the gold in his brown hair, and the pupils of his golden brown eyes were little more than pinpoints. He wore a white T-shirt that nearly sparkled in the sun. The odd question of who did his laundry crossed her mind; luckily, she stopped it before it fell out of her mouth.
She took a little step away from him and said, “Best thing for soreness is to keep it moving.”
“Not two miles on a 10 percent upgrade.”
“It’s not all up; there are lots of dips and curves along the way.”
He didn’t look any less disapproving.
“Hey, Granny just did it last week,” she said lightly. “Even banged-up I should be able to handle it.”
“I bet Tula wasn’t alone. Besides, what if something happens? You could get back there and discover you’re not nearly as fit as you think.”
She added, “Will you feel better if I promise to rest every half mile?”
“I’d feel better if you didn’t go.”
“Don’t make me feel guilty. I really need to go.” How could she explain the healing power that place had for her? Granny had taken her there for the first time the summer after her dad had died. The sparkle of the waterfall, the feeling of absolute isolation, the soothing sound of rushing water had all combined to give the place an air of magic to her five-year-old senses. That magic had never faded for Glory as she’d grown older and other childhood treasures—like Santa and rainbows and the belief that your parents knew everything—lost their luster.
Eric stood there for a long moment in silence. His gaze seemed to be taking her measure, calculating the odds of talking her out of her madness. He then glanced back at his motorcycle, which was parked in the shade beside the stump where he’d been sitting. His gaze then traveled to the church. “Tula know you’re going?”
“I left a note.”
The sideways you’re-gonna-be-in-such-trouble look he gave her said he knew just how Tula was going to react to that. Then he sighed and said, “Guess I’ll come along, then. Tula finds out I let you go alone and she’ll give me a real ass-chewing.”
Company on this hike was the last thing she wanted. The fewer people around Blue Falls Pond the better. She didn’t want to share. She didn’t want the magic to be worn away by hundreds of pairs of hiking boots and buried under picnic litter. True, Eric was just one person; but one could lead to two, two to four, and it wouldn’t stop until Blue Falls Pond was on all of the maps and trail guides. But she couldn’t see any way of preventing him from coming.
“You don’t have water,” she said, in a last-ditch effort to discourage him.
“Wrong.” He walked over to the motorcycle and retrieved a liter bottle and held it up to her as he returned.
“All right, then.” She turned and started toward the path. “If you can’t keep up, you’re on your own.”
He laughed and followed her into the shadowy woods.
Tula put on her new sunglasses, then descended the church steps, pausing to thank Pastor Roberts for the inspiring service.
Her grandson Charlie was waiting for her at the bottom of the steps.
She greeted him with a smile. “Glad to see you this morning, Charlie.”
He blinked his bloodshot eyes. “Glad, but not surprised,” he said, with an appropriate amount of respect.
Tula reached up and patted his cheek. “I gave you a choice.”
Charlie was nothing more than an overgrown boy, in both spirit and appearance. He’d kept the handsome looks that had fallen upon him at birth; he’d bewitched women from the moment he drew his first breath. He had a wide smile and eyes so bright blue that even when he was a child she’d seen grown women catch their breath as they looked into them. Of course, these things contributed significantly to his immaturity; women just fell for him, they either wanted to mother him or capture his heart. And Charlie was a charmer; the boy could talk the dogs off a meat wagon.
She supposed she’d been as taken with him as anyone, else she wouldn’t have given him more leeway than was right.
While he’d been married to Crystal, he’d seemed a bit more settled . . . at least for a while. ’Course they’d married at nineteen, with their firstborn arriving some five months later. Since the divorce, Charlie had been acting like a kite without a tail, dipping and jerking in useless circles, unable
to steady himself. Tula was worried that before long he was going to crash into the ground and not be able to get airborne again. That was why she never refused when he asked if his boys could spend time with her on his weekends; what kind of example would he be setting for five growing boys?
Last week, she’d begun to make . . . suggestions. Charlie had had his time to mourn his marriage. He was past thirty. He had five young’uns who needed to learn how to grow into men. It was time for Charlie to straighten up.
Tula said, “I’m proud to see you’ve made the right decision.”
Charlie leaned down and kissed her cheek. “With you asking, Granny, how could I refuse?” Then he glanced across the parking lot to where Jenni Camp, who worked at the Blue Ridge Bar, stood waiting beside his Suburban.
Tula figured Jenni was both the reason for the bloodshot eyes and the fact that he made it to church on time.
He said, “Can we give you a ride home?”
Tula shook her head. “I got a stop to make. Y’all go on.”
He gave her a quick one-armed hug and started toward Jenni. “I’ll give you a call later this week,” he said with a smile. “We can plan for next weekend.”
She just nodded and waved him on. One step at a time. She’d gotten him to church. The next step would take a little more planning—there were young’uns’ feelings at stake.
She watched Jenni’s eyes light up as Charlie walked toward her. That boy was just too doggone handsome for his own good. She shook her head and crossed the parking lot, crushed stone sharp through her thin-soled church shoes.
As she did every Sunday after services, she made her way toward the gate at the side of the church that led to the cemetery. She stopped and gave Blackwell’s bird dog a good scratch behind his ear as she passed their truck. She noticed when she looked at him dead on, his eyes looked like they weren’t lined up right. ’Course it wasn’t BJ’s eyes that were wrong, it was her own.
Please, Lord, just a little more time . . . Least ’til Glory’s sorted out.
Few people lingered around in the heat. They’d rather get in their cars and turn on air conditioners or roll windows down and create a breeze of their own on the shady mountain road. That suited Tula fine. She preferred being alone with Sam. All too often some well-meaning friend wanted to join her in the cemetery—likely worried she’d become overwhelmed with grief if left on her own.
But her visits with Sam always brought gladness. They gave her a sense of connection, of support, of reassurance that he was with her in spirit until the day the Lord called her home, and they could once again be together.
As she moved through the cemetery, along the same path she’d traveled at least once a week for the past ten years, she stubbed her toe on the uneven ground. She hadn’t seen the little rise in the grass that caught her, and she stumbled forward a couple of steps before she regained her balance.
Normally Tula Baker would be the first to break into laughter over her own near spill; she was notorious for her inability to hold in her mirth over a fall, hers or anyone else’s. As long as there was no blood and no broken bones, laughter exploded from her without a thought. Used to make Sam so dang mad; accused her of being unfeeling. People could be hurt, he’d say. But it wasn’t that she didn’t care; she just couldn’t help herself when she saw legs sprawling this way and that or arms pinwheeling in the air.
But this time no laughter sprang forth. Her heart sped up and her mouth went dry. It shook her confidence enough that she waited several seconds before she took another step, glancing to see if anyone had seen her. Years
ago, when she’d first found out about her condition, everyone had been so overly cautious, treating her like a robin’s egg, offering to do this and that for her. She’d been months convincing them she was no different than she’d ever been. One look at something like this whoopdie-do would set the worry warts and the Nosey Nellies into a tizzy again.
Luckily, the only witness appeared to be BJ the bird dog.
After a moment to settle her nerves, she moved with renewed care toward Sam’s headstone. She laid her hand on the warm granite.
“Hello, Pap. It’s Sunday again. Weeks’re going by blindin’ fast.” She sighed softly and waited—waited for the familiar feeling that he was listening. After a moment, it came. “I’m havin’ the devil’s own time keeping my nose out of Glory’s business.” She patted the stone thoughtfully.
“I know we reared our young’uns to make up their own minds and clean up their own messes if things ended poorly. The grandbabies should do the same. But this just feels too . . . big to let go racin’ down the road like it is.
“I’m worried that afore long I won’t be able to fool Glory into thinking my eyes ain’t no worse. Once that happens . . . well, she’ll be staying here for the wrong reasons. Cain’t have it.” Tula shook her head slowly and contemplated for a moment. “There’s a big dark hole in the middle of that girl. She’s kept herself running so fast you’d think she’d hear the wind whistlin’ through it. But she cain’t see it. And if she don’t see it, it ain’t ever gonna get filled.”
Tula knelt beside the stone, her knees complaining. She pulled away the long sprigs of grass that the church superintendent left at the monument’s base when he zipped around the cemetery with his power mower. Honest to goodness, nobody had any pride in their work anymore. She decided not to grumble to Sam about it, though; he’d heard it enough.
In the heat, her face was breaking out in a fine sheen of sweat. The Oakleys slid down her nose, and she pushed them back up with an index finger to the bridge. “Eric got me these new sunglasses.” She paused in her grass pulling and looked at the granite stone. “Who’d a’ thought I’d have sunglasses worth more than two weeks’ groceries? But, I gotta admit, they do help.”
On Blue Falls Pond Page 12
