The Secret of the Dark

by Barbara Steiner

  I didn’t want Fleecy making someone help me and I said so, but there were so many things we needed. I wondered if I dared ask Neal for a ride? I could always take the taxi back. Or I supposed I could take a taxi both ways, but that would get expensive.

  After dinner all of us felt comfortably full and willing to copy Granny’s style of sitting in a rocker or an easy chair. It had clouded up just about the time Fleecy arrived and the air was damp and cooler.

  I lit the fire and it felt good and cheered up the cabin, as I had hoped. It had become the cozy place I had imagined on my first night here. Fleecy insisted I play the piano but changed her mind after a couple of numbers.

  “Hit does certain need a tuning, doesn’t it? I’ll ask around for someone that knows how.”

  “He’s still here,” Granny said, out of the blue, her mind taking off again.

  “Who is, Annie? A piano tuner?” Fleecy teased, knowing Granny wasn’t talking about a piano tuner.

  “He’s looking for her.”

  “This is one of Granny’s favorite stories,” Fleecy whispered. “Tell us that story, Annie. I’ve about forgot it.”

  The story was about a ghost that walked the mountains around Catalpa Ridge. I shivered with the delicious anticipation of my camping days. Ghost stories around an open fire. It was a Romeo and Juliet type of tale, but both lovers didn’t die at the same time.

  The girl’s father wouldn’t let her marry her Romeo so she jumped from the nearby bluffs into the river. The shock twisted the young man’s mind a bit, and he spent the rest of his life wandering the mountains looking for her. The girl had hair of gold, of course, as most girls in love stories do, and the boy was also fair.

  We all sat, looking into the fire at the end of the story, lamenting the way true love hardly ever works out. Thunder rumbled, getting close.

  “He won’t rest till he finds her,” Granny repeated.

  I laughed, trying to break the spell of Granny’s story now. Suddenly it seemed so real, so sad. “I guess I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” Fleecy warned. “The world is full of strange things, haints and witches, too.”

  Mrs. Butterworth, as Fleecy had called the cat, came walking through the living room meowing loudly. She seemed restless.

  “Hit’s a bad ’un,” Granny said.

  Again I looked at Fleecy who seemed able to translate Granny’s wandering mind. “The storm,” Fleecy said. “I’d best be getting on before it breaks. At least it ain’t tornado time yet.” She gathered her dishes, which we’d washed, putting the leftover food away for Saturday. I asked Fleecy how she’d get home, but apparently her nephew, Cedrick, was coming back and would wait for her below.

  I bundled up the laundry in a sheet, placing the dishes carefully on top of the load before I tied it up. I offered to help her down the steps, but she let me know she was still agile.

  I was in bed but not asleep, when it started to pour rain. The thunder crashed and rattled around the cabin. Rain on a tin roof was a new sound for me, and plenty noisy. But soon the violence moved on, leaving only a steady strum of rain. Now it was cozy and I snuggled under the covers, putting aside thoughts of ghosts and star-crossed lovers.

  Thoughts of Neal crept in. I let those stay. Tomorrow I’d see him again. Had it been my imagination that I could like him a lot?

  CHAPTER

  4

  I WOKE early to a fresh, clean-smelling day. Opening the screen and leaning out the window, I watched fog fingers drift by, touching the cabin, then moving on. High up on the slope above me I could hear a bird singing. What cheer. What cheer. What cheer. The clear, sweet call was muffled slightly by the time it reached me, but I knew that sunshine was probably hitting the mountaintop. The fog would burn off quickly.

  Suddenly I wanted to be outside. I loved all sorts of weather, but fog in New York smelled of engine exhaust. I pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt and grabbed a flannel shirt in case I was cold. My sneakers made no noise on the stairs, and I tiptoed across the living room.

  It was a strange, mysterious world, but much friendlier now that I knew where I was. Well, I knew the yard and Granny’s cabin. I was getting the urge to explore farther, but I couldn’t now in the fog.

  I hugged my shirt closer as the dampness seeped in, and decided to walk far enough to pick a handful of the wild flowers I’d seen from my window yesterday. They’d be cheerful on the kitchen table. The clouds thinned as if to give me a peek at my destination, and cheery yellow blossoms leaped up from the mist. They were beaded with raindrops but not beaten down or mud splattered. I knew they’d perk up when they dried. Quickly I gathered a handful. Their smell was bitter, so I contented myself with looking instead of sniffing. A sweeter smell came from above, and although I didn’t know many of the plants here, I suspected it was honeysuckle.

  Turning to start back, I found that the cabin had totally disappeared, an eerie feeling. The quiet. Would I ever get used to such solitude? A world that held its breath at times, then doled out one noise at a time. A bird, a squirrel, a whisper of breeze.

  I took a few steps back in the direction I’d come. The path was well defined under my feet. I wanted to hurry back to the cabin, start the clatter of breakfast. Yet I was fascinated with what was for me another planet, sparsely populated, foreign, yet friendly.

  I really had never dwelled on the word primitive. If there is anything primitive about New York it is the emotions of those who fight each other for territories in gang wars or those who draw awkward symbols of their fantasies on subway walls.

  But these mountains — hills, the natives call them — seemed to me to define the word primitive. I suspected they had remained much like this for hundreds of years. Granny’s cabin was probably seventy years old, and I wondered if her husband had built it for her.

  A huge flat rock under a tree loomed beside the path, inviting. I sat down before I remembered that it was wet. Oh, well, I’d dry.

  “Meeeeooow.”

  I jumped, then laughed. The cat had found me. I decided to call her Mrs. Butterworth too. She leaped into my lap and bumped her head on my chin. She felt damp as if she’d walked under bushes getting up the slope.

  “You scared me, silly.” I stroked her back, and she arched with delight, then looked at me with her golden eyes as if to say, “You’re scared of me?”

  We had visited a minute when I began to feel terribly cold, as if someone had opened a door and let in a draft. Icy fingers crept up my back and I shivered. It must be the damp rock.

  I gathered my handful of flowers. But before I could head for the warmth of the cabin and a cup of coffee, the silence was broken by an unmistakable crunch of footsteps on the path above me.

  Mrs. Butterworth sprang from my lap and fled, tail high, disappearing into the fog like a wild thing.

  I stood, squeezed the flowers, and froze in place. A half scream escaped from my lips as a dark shape loomed beside me. “Oh.”

  “Hey, did I scare you?”

  “But … oh … you’re real.” My heart thumped in my throat. Didn’t a blast of cold air announce a ghost? And here he was — the fair-haired boy.

  “Of course I’m real. What did you think I was? A fog creature? Maybe my fingers should drip with strands of moss.” He raised his hands, curled his fingers in a menacing way.

  “I mean … well … Granny told this story. There’s a ghost—”

  “You thought I was a ghost, huh? Well, I hope you’re not. I’d hate to fall in love at first sight with a ghost.”

  “Now wait a minute.”

  “You don’t believe in love at first sight?”

  “Who are you?”

  “You want to know my name before you fall in love with me?”

  His teasing was infuriating after the fright he had given me and the fact that he stood much too close to me. I stepped back and looked at him from a more comfortable space. He could have been the ghost lover. He was fair and his reddish-blond hair
curled slightly below his ears and around his face. He wore sideburns that you’d expect of a man from an earlier time. But he showed no ounce of wistful searching. No brokenhearted demeanor. His brown eyes flirted and his mouth curled into a teasing grin.

  “Like what you see?” The grin got bigger.

  “Of course not.” I had been staring at him. And although I denied it, I did like what I saw. There was an appealing boyishness about him, yet he was definitely not a boy. I guessed he was about twenty.

  He reached out his hand and it must have been my imagination, but I felt he was going to take me in his arms.

  “Don’t touch me.” I moved back again.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He tipped an imaginary hat. “I beg your pardon for being so forward. Perhaps another time?”

  “You have a lot of nerve.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I do. My manners are atrocious, but you’re beautiful, you know. I guess I just lost my wits there for a moment. If you’re Granny’s summer guest, I’m sure we’ll meet again.” He turned and disappeared up the slope into a swirl of mist.

  My head spun and I took a deep breath as if I hadn’t had enough air for the last few moments. I wasn’t ready for him to leave. I hadn’t found out who he was. He was real, wasn’t he? Yes, he was definitely real. Too much so.

  What was wrong with me? I had met two boys in my short time here and both had sent me spinning off into daydreams and fantasies.

  I turned back to the cabin, feeling the need of something strong and hot. My thoughts swirled with the fog, and I let them come and go without really focusing on any one idea. I’d get some breakfast and then think.

  Granny sat in her rocker when I burst in. “Granny, do you —”

  I had meant to ask Granny if she knew the ghost-boy I’d met, but she interrupted me. “If I had lots of money, then Rue could take her pictures.” She sat, hands in her lap, but her eyes were far away.

  I stopped my questioning and turned my attention to Granny. “Granny, Rue doesn’t need any money. And she’s off in Israel taking pictures right now. Remember? That’s why I’m here, so she could go.” Rue had gotten word that Granny needed care just days before they were supposed to leave — Rue taking photos and my dad writing a book about the region. It had taken them a lot of time to plan the trip and get permission to go. I had been glad of an opportunity to help Rue. She had helped me so much in the last year.

  The doctor had said I could get Granny’s attention when I needed it, but she still looked blank. I stopped the conversation and headed for the kitchen. If she kept worrying, I’d try to talk to her again.

  I filled the tea kettle and set it on a blue flame. I had taken out a vase I’d seen earlier when looking for coffee and arranged the wild flowers when I realized the cabin smelled of smoke. Cigarette smoke, not puff-of-wind-down-the-chimney smoke.

  “Granny, was someone here while I was gone?”

  She sat at the kitchen table, waiting, her cracked cup between her hands. “Rue would know what to do.”

  “Yes, we’ll ask Rue.” I appeased her, but asked in a louder and more insistent voice, “Granny, was someone here while I was gone?”

  “Sometimes I get confused,” she said, looking at me with tears in her eyes. She seemed so little and helpless.

  “Never mind.” I made my voice gentler and touched her shoulder. Then I went round opening windows. The smell was strongest in the living room. Someone had been here with Granny. While I was gone. I didn’t like the idea. I didn’t like it at all.

  CHAPTER

  5

  I PUT aside thoughts of Granny’s visitor, since there was nothing I could do unless Granny remembered who it was and what he’d wanted. I decided it had been a man for some reason, even though women smoke. I think a woman would have waited to meet me. I wanted to meet Granny’s friends. So far, Fleecy and Dr. Gallagher seemed to be the only people who came to see her on a regular basis.

  Maybe it was a good day for biscuits. I clattered around the kitchen, mixing the sticky dough after a recipe in an old cookbook Granny had. It had become looseleaf at some time and the pages were brown and crumbling at the edges, but I knew the cooking would be good. Any book that’s used that much is bound to be a favorite.

  There was a little ham left. I fried it, made gravy in the grease, and scrambled eggs in another pan. My real mother had come from Virginia so I had learned to cook a little Southern. Granny seemed pleased anyway. She ate two biscuits with gravy on them and another with butter and honey. She even licked her fingers when she’d finished. It was fun to cook when someone appreciated it.

  “Tonight’s the dance, Granny. What will you wear?”

  We went into Granny’s room and she dug in the closet. From the back she pulled out a dark blue calico dress that would be the envy of any fashion designer. It had bands of lace through the skirt, lace at the collar and the cuffs.

  “I always liked this dress,” Granny said, running her wrinkled hands over the skirt.

  How long since she had worn it? It smelled musty. “I’ll air it outside, on the line, Granny. Aren’t we going to have fun?”

  “I always went to parties and never sat out a dance,” Granny said. “We had play parties at Nellie Bradshaw’s every Saturday. Her folks ran the hardware and feed store and they had the money to entertain. She married Lester Harlow. Didn’t work out too good, though. She should’ve knowed he didn’t like to dance.” Granny kept the story going about Nellie’s marriage but I stopped listening. I knew my clothes were still wrinkled so I ran up to choose a skirt and blouse. If I hung them in the fog it would take out the wrinkles, and the sun would dry them when it came out.

  The air was still damp, but the sun had come over the slope behind the cabin. The air was warming up fast. Mrs. Butterworth ran from behind the root cellar and wove in and out of my legs while I hung up the party clothes.

  “Deserted me, didn’t you?” I accused her. “Well, I don’t blame you. I was scared for a minute, too.”

  I cleaned up the breakfast dishes and some of the kitchen. Everything was dusty, but I’d wash dishes as we used them. I checked the staples and canned goods as I opened and straightened cupboards. Soon it would take a truck to get me home from town with supplies.

  The day flew by. After I’d helped Granny dress and combed her hair into a bun on top of her head, I went to get ready. Excitement fluttered in my stomach. Stop it, I scolded. You’ve been to parties before. Not too many. I realized I’d spent most of my spare time practicing one thing or another, my dance, my music. Then the simple housekeeping chores kept me tied down after my mother died. Or had I used that as an excuse? To tell the truth, I didn’t feel comfortable at parties. I found it hard to stand around chatting about football and boys, and then probably because I looked uncomfortable no one ever asked me to dance. That was funny to think about I’ll bet I was the best dancer there, but knowing how to move on a dance floor didn’t make me popular. It was the knack of flirting, of making a guy feel comfortable, that seemed to matter at a party. And I didn’t have that

  Here I was two thousand miles from home. I’d change my image. I’d stop being that serious, stuffy Valerie Wreyford and become — what? Well, I’d practice flirting to begin with. I’d watched. It had to do with looking at a guy, instead of at your feet, and smiling, getting him to talk. Maybe Granny could help me. It sounded as if she’d been popular in her day. I didn’t have “yaller hair” but surely some guys liked hair as black and shiny as patent-leather shoes.

  I brushed it back, letting the short wisps fall over my forehead. I’d had it cut short before I’d left New York, but it still looked feminine. I wore my red full skirt that made me want to twirl and a new peasant blouse that Rue had brought me from Switzerland. It was embroidered with flowers of all colors, but the trim was red.

  “That’s a purty outfit, child,” Granny said. “I always liked red.”

  “We’ll be the prettiest girls there, Granny,” I said to get up my nerve.

>   “I ’spect so.” She cackled her little laugh.

  Neal thought we’d do and he said so in a way that made me smile.

  “Oooo-eeee. I’ll be the envy of the whole town. Two such pretty girls on my arm.”

  “I reckon you’re purty lucky at that.” Granny took Neal’s arm to go down the steps.

  “I reckon I am.” He looked at me and winked, and try as I might, I shifted my eyes quickly to the stair railing.

  The dance was held in the Catalpa Ridge Community House. At one end of a long room a band warmed up. All along one side women took pies and cakes out of paper bags. Fleecy waved at us as she set down a box.

  “You didn’t tell me to bring something,” I said to Neal, embarrassed that we’d come empty-handed.

  “That’s all right, Valerie. Mom made a cake and cookies. She knew you wouldn’t have settled in enough to bake.”

  “She made biscuits for breakfast. I reckon I’ll keep her since she can cook.” Granny seemed firmly in this time, this place, and had come to life, leaving about twenty years behind somewhere.

  Everyone knew her and came to where we sat down to speak to her. When the music started she tapped her foot and nodded her head to the lively tunes. The band consisted of two guitars, a mandolin, a dulcimer, and a fiddle.

  Fleecy and her husband, Fletcher — a dried-up little old man, half the size of Fleecy — joined us. “Look at you, Annie. I’d forgot about that pretty dress.”

  There were squares and reels and some line dances Neal called contras. At first I protested that I didn’t know the dance steps, but Neal pushed or pulled me in the right direction as did other men in the square. I didn’t have to remember to keep smiling as the music was the kind that made a person want to bounce and laugh.

  Whenever I had the nerve, usually when he swung me round and round, I looked right into Neal’s eyes, giving him my attention as if he were the only man in the room. We hadn’t talked much at all but I felt as if he liked me a lot.