Rattlesnake Hill

by Leslie Wheeler

  Ever yearning for the light of

  Her smile.

  Her vision blurred. Drops of sweat or tears? Wiping her eyes, she stared at the dates. “He lived to be one hundred and two?”

  “That’s right. He survived her by more than eighty years. He never married and those who knew him said not a day passed when he didn’t speak her name with longing. He used to come up here every day when he was younger. Toward the end, he could only come every few months. They had to carry him in a litter. He died trying to reach her. They found his body halfway up the ledges.”

  More salty drops filled her eyes. This time she knew they were tears. Don’t get all weepy. Remember how he desecrated the other grave. Something else bothered her, something she couldn’t identify. A hard knot of anger began to form. “Who tends these graves now?”

  “I do. And while we’re here, I might as well replace the asters.” He moved away.

  Kathryn stared at Marguerite’s headstone, then at the bottle with its withered blooms. Before her eyes, the bottle became a small bowl filled with dried rose petals. It sat on her mother’s dresser beside a framed photograph and a votive candle. “Your father’s picture needs to be dusted,” her mother called from bed. Kathryn started to reach for the photograph but stopped short.

  “Do it,” her mother ordered.

  Her heart was beating very fast. The knot of anger grew until it burst apart. Her arm swung outward, sweeping the dresser top clean. China and glass shattered against the floor. Her mother screamed.

  “What the hell?” Earl’s voice jolted her back to the present.

  She blinked. Flowers and shards of glass littered the ground in front of Marguerite’s grave. Dazed, she rose and faced him. “I don’t know what came over me just now. I thought. . .” She trailed off, ashamed.

  Earl stared at the wreckage, then at her. “The bottle you destroyed was special. Clyde himself put it there. What’s wrong with you, anyway?” He took a step toward her.

  “Nothing,” she snapped, shock giving way to a fresh burst of anger. “Clyde had no business digging up Marguerite’s coffin and moving it here. He should have left her where she belonged, in the grave her husband made for her. He loved her, too, and after she died he kept her portrait with him the rest of his life.”

  “Big deal.” Earl’s face turned as red as the berries on the branch in his hand. “He hightailed it out of town the minute she was in the ground, and never came back to visit her grave.”

  “So? He realized it was time to move on. That’s what normal people do. Move on and start a new life. It’s only the crazy ones who stay stuck in their stupid grief. Like Clyde making her grave into a goddamn shrine. And you mooning over Diana by the pond.”

  Earl’s fists clenched and his features compressed until she caught a glimpse of his brother’s mean, ugly mug. She half expected him to haul off and hit her as Garth might have. “I’m sorry I brought you here.” His voice was tight as a steel trap.

  “I’m sorry I came.”

  “Then go! Get out of here!” He jabbed the branch at her like a spear. She darted past him and began the descent, gravity propelling her downward, reckless in her fury. What a fool he was to keep up the family tradition of crazy love, endless mourning! Her boot slipped on a loose stone and she nearly fell. Regaining her balance, she continued her headlong plunge. She heard the clomp of his boots behind her and quickened her pace, even though getting down was harder than getting up. Then, she’d only gotten winded. Now, her leg muscles ached from braking. How absurd to put a cemetery on this steep hill without a proper path. The Barkers were insane.

  “Watch out!” Earl’s voice came from behind. Probably just trying to frighten her. Her gaze fell on a rope-like shape sprawled on the rock below. Too late—one foot was already in the air when the rope came alive. It spun around to face her, long neck rearing up from the coil of its body. She saw the flicker of a forked tongue, heard a telltale rattle. She wanted to scream, but her throat had gone completely dry. The snake craned its head toward her, its fangs only inches away. She shut her eyes, steeling herself against the pain that would come any second. An arm hooked around her middle, jerking her away.

  She landed hard on her left side, with Earl piled on top. He eased himself off and stood. “That was close. Let’s go.”

  She shook her head, pointed wordlessly at the rock below. The snake was still there, body raised in attack mode, rattle whirring ominously.

  “We steer clear of him, he won’t bother us.” Earl held out a hand.

  She didn’t move, her body rigid with fear.

  “C’mon.” He tugged on her hand.

  “No.”

  He squatted beside her. “You won’t walk, I’ll have to carry you.” He slid an arm around her and lifted her. His legs buckled under her weight. She clung to his neck, terrified he’d drop her. “Gotcha,” he said, steadying himself.

  Giving the snake a wide berth, he started down. One arm encircled her shoulders, the other cradled her thighs, his muscles flexed and hard beneath her. She felt the jog of his every step, the rapid rise and fall of his breath, the sticky dampness of his sweat. He stopped once or twice to reposition her, but gave no other sign she was a burden. She began to relax and even enjoy the downhill trip. Closing her eyes, she rested her head against his chest.

  She knew they’d reached level ground from the change in his gait and was almost disappointed when he stopped and said, “You can walk now.” Yet he held her a moment longer. When he did release her, he sighed deeply. With relief or . . . ? She slid down, scraping against his belt buckle, her hair snagging on something. She tried to stand and pull free, but her legs wobbled, and she was all tangled up with him.

  “Hold still a sec.” His fingers sifted through her hair, unsnapping the clip that held her hair back, which had caught on a chain he wore around his neck. When he’d separated them, he gazed at her hair, hanging loose around her face.

  “What’s that?” she asked to get him to stop staring at her. She pointed at a small blue medallion at the end of his chain.

  “My St. Christopher medal.”

  “The saint who protects travelers?”

  He nodded, his eyes still on her hair.

  “Maybe he protected us today.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in that kind of thing.”

  She shrugged. He stared at her a moment longer before looking away. A dog barked in the distance then it was quiet again.

  “Never seen a rattler out this late in the season before,” he said. “Usually they have a last big meal, spend some time digesting it, and disappear into their dens for the winter. The hot weather must’ve confused him. Heat’s starting to get to me, too.” He swiped a hand across his forehead. “I’m awfully thirsty. How about you?”

  “I’d love a glass of water.”

  “C’mon, then.”

  He turned away, the corners of his mouth curling upward in a smile.

  Chapter 30

  As they crossed the road to the white house, she noticed a blue station wagon parked in the driveway. Earl frowned but said nothing. He led her to a clearing behind the house, where a dark green trailer blended in with the surrounding woods. Two barrels of mums stood on either side of the door, just as they did at the house. Millie’s touch? If so, there was no sign of her or any other woman’s influence inside. Judging from the minimal furnishings, Earl was a man who required few comforts. Snowshoes, animal traps, a fishing rod and a gun case were attached to the otherwise bare walls. The trailer was cool as an animal’s den.

  Earl motioned her to a chair at the Formica table, filled two glasses at the sink, and gave her one. “Better?” he asked after they’d each taken a long drink.

  “Yes.”

  He ran a hand through his light brown hair, studying her until the scrutiny made her uncomfortable. “What?”
/>   He stared into his glass, then at her again. “Want to tell me what was going on at the cemetery?”

  She’d hoped he wouldn’t bring that up. “What do you mean?”

  “You got pretty upset.”

  “I said some things I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry. I still think Clyde was wrong to move Marguerite from the village cemetery, though.”

  “You’re entitled to your opinion.” He paused to take a drink of water. “But what happened at the ledges wasn’t only about Clyde and Marguerite.” He leaned forward, staring at her intently.

  She squirmed, her back pressing into the hard metal of the chair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “After you broke the bottle, you looked dazed. Like you’d been somewhere else and just returned.”

  “Can we drop it? I said I was sorry.”

  He looked at her with his infernal blue eyes. Waiting for her to spill the beans like she had about Aunt Kit’s scandalous affair with Kane. Not on your life. She rose and headed for the door. “Thanks for the water. And for taking me up to the cemetery and seeing me safely down.”

  “Whatever happened in that other place must’ve really hurt you.”

  The observation stopped her. How could he possibly know? Unless he saw the well-concealed wound others hadn’t. She spun around to face him. The wound ripped open and fresh blood spurted out.

  “Yes! My mother kept a photograph of my father on her dresser next to a bowl with dried flowers and a votive candle. Like it was a shrine. He didn’t deserve to be worshiped. He left when I was four. Married four more times and would have married a sixth if—”

  She bit her lip. Why was she telling him this? She’d better stop while she still could. Silence stretched between them. Silence she felt compelled to fill. “He would have married again if he hadn’t become ill with Parkinson’s. Imagine: an orthopedic surgeon and a celebrity doctor who’d treated big-name athletes with hands that shook too much for him to operate. He lost his practice. And once the money was gone, his fifth wife walked out on him. But my mother, she, she—”

  Even now, she stumbled over the sheer improbability of her mother’s action. She half-expected Earl to urge her to continue. If he had, she might have come to her senses and left without another word. Instead, his silence goaded her to speak.

  “She took him in, goddammit! She’d spent the years since he left, holed up in her room, too depressed to get out of bed. She was never there for me. My grandmother had to look after her and raise me at the same time. Yet when she found out my father was ill, couldn’t work, and had been abandoned by his wife, she invited him to come and live with us.”

  She paused to give him a chance to show his disbelief and disapproval, but he merely gazed at her.

  “Incredible, isn’t it?” she said. “The whole thing was like some twisted fairytale with my mother as Sleeping Beauty. A Sleeping Beauty, who wasn’t awakened by the kiss of a handsome prince, but by this sick old man who’d dumped her years ago. He could hardly dress himself, hardly get through a meal without spilling his food. He had to wear diapers and couldn’t walk without a cane. Even then, someone had to be with him in case he fell and wound up on the ground, bleeding and unconscious. This was the man my mother roused herself from her long sleep for—the man she expected my grandmother and me to help her care for.”

  She paused, hands on her hips, features twisted with rage. Again she hoped for a reaction and got nothing. He seemed to be waiting for her to finish before he passed judgment. She plunged on.

  “My grandmother was so furious she moved out and went to live with a woman she knew from work. I was stuck there with this awful man and my crazy mother. How could she take him back after what he did to her?” The question was rhetorical: she didn’t expect a response. This time she got one.

  “Sounds like your mother never stopped loving your father,” he said quietly.

  “Love!” she exploded. “What she did was sick, perverse. He’d already ruined her life once, and she let him do it all over again. My life, too! I was seventeen, in my last year of high school, working after school and on weekends so I could be free of them. She made me quit my job and stay home to help out with him. I hated every minute of it. I wanted him to die. If I hadn’t left when I did, I might have killed him.”

  There. She’d said it. Her worst secret was out in the open. His gaze held steady and sympathetic. His disgust she could have handled, but not his sympathy. It was like a current flowing from his eyes into her, loosening something deep within. She began to sob, her whole body shaking, hot tears streaming down her cheeks. Through the blur of her tears, she was aware of him walking over to her. His very nearness made her feel better. He was there in case she needed him while she rode out the emotional storm.

  When she was calmer, he removed a red bandanna from the pocket of his jeans and gave it to her. She wiped her face and blew her nose. Embarrassed, she stuffed the bandanna into her pocket. “I’ll return this after I’ve washed it.”

  “Okay.”

  It wasn’t okay. She wished she hadn’t exposed her innermost self to him. Still, it was good to get the poison out of her system, if only for a while. She felt empty, purged, then apprehensive. “What I told you just now, you must think . . .”

  He shook his head, as if to forestall further words. “C’mon. I’ll take you home.”

  Walking out of the trailer was like leaving a darkened movie theater after a matinee: the light too bright, the heat oppressive. She felt disoriented and tripped on the last cinder block step. She grabbed his arm to steady herself, letting go as soon as she was on solid ground. The sense of disorientation continued. The scene in the trailer, the trip to the hilltop cemetery, the rattler and her miraculous rescue—had any of that really happened? Or had she dreamed the whole thing? If so, it was the most vivid dream she’d ever had. Vivid and unsettling.

  Shaking her head to clear it, she followed Earl out of the woods to the road. As they were about to cross to his truck, he suddenly broke away. He loped over to a utility pole with a rusted metal hoop, dribbling an imaginary basketball as he went. He leaped into the air, grabbed the rim of the hoop, and slam-dunked the ball through. His t-shirt sleeve hiked up on his arm, and she caught a glimpse of a dark blot on his skin. A birthmark? A tattoo? He smiled when he landed, and so did she. As if he were a basketball star, and she his biggest fan.

  When they arrived at the Farley house and she saw the white BMW with the rental sticker parked in the driveway, it, too, seemed part of the dream.

  Chapter 31

  Aman walked slowly toward them from behind the house. He was about Earl’s height, but heavier with a round face and the beginning of a paunch protruding from the pink polo shirt he wore with khaki cargo pants.

  “Didn’t expect to see you here, Gordon,” Earl said tightly.

  So this was Gordon Farley. He had yellow-flecked hazel eyes and longish, curly dark blonde hair that framed his face like a lion’s mane. He reminded her of a big fat cat.

  “A gallery in the city wants to exhibit my work,” he said.

  “Still taking pictures of door knockers?” Earl scoffed.

  “Actually, I’ve switched to window sashes. How about you? Still fooling around with snakes and . . .?” He glanced at her curiously.

  “I’m Kathryn Stinson, the new tenant.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” He extended a pigskin-gloved hand. “Brandy was supposed to let you know I’d be stopping by. I guess she forgot.”

  “I’ll be going,” Earl said.

  “You need to fill in this low spot with more gravel first.” Gordon pointed to a place that looked perfectly level to Kathryn.

  Earl strode to his truck. “Fix it when I’m back on the job. It’s Sunday.”

  “Trash,” Gordon muttered as Earl drove off.

  Kathryn bristled. Although she
’d found Earl annoying on first meeting, she never would have described him as “trash.” And she certainly wouldn’t do so now when she knew that behind the jokey exterior lay a man capable of deep feelings and eloquent speech.

  Catching her frown, Gordon said, “I apologize for using that word in front of you, Miss Kath—Miss Stinson. But that’s what he is. He and the rest of his tribe. I’m from the South, I know about these hill people.”

  “If you dislike him so much, why did you hire him?”

  “You live in this town, you have to do business with the Barkers. They’re a local institution. Besides, Earl’s one of the best excavators around.” Gordon smoothed a patch of gravel with the toe of his tasseled loafer. “I hope he hasn’t been bothering you.”

  “Why would you think that?” She looked at him with a mixture of surprise and irritation.

  Gordon’s toe burrowed into the gravel. “It’s none of my business, but you look like you’ve been crying.”

  “I’m fine,” she snapped. “He hasn’t bothered me a bit.”

  “Consider yourself lucky. I know of one woman he bothered to death.”

  If he meant what she thought, he’d gone too far. “Are you implying that—”

  Gordon seemed to realize this, too. He held up a placating hand. “Enough said. I have to go through some boxes in the attic. That won’t disturb you, will it?” His voice was soft, almost silken, but there was a cold anger in his gaze.

  “Well . . .”

  Without waiting for her to finish, Gordon barged on, “Good. I’m staying with friends in the area, but I’ll probably need to come to the house from time to time. If I see your car in the driveway, I’ll knock before entering. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

  While Gordon rummaged in the attic, Kathryn went and sat on the patio. So much had happened today. It would take her a long time to get everything sorted out. Even then, she doubted she could arrange the various events into neat, orderly files the way she did the Lyceum’s collection of prints and photographs. Right now, she wasn’t sure how she felt about anything except that Gordon was one of the most disagreeable people she’d ever met. Especially after his comment about Earl bothering a woman to death. He must mean Diana, but did he have a reason for believing Earl had been somehow involved in her death, or was it simply Gordon’s jealousy talking? Clearly, no love was lost between them.