I was still in high school when my father remarried, less than a year after Mom died, and I came to live with Vesta. I'm still not wild about Dad's wife, Roberta, but I've come to terms with their relationship. When Jarvis died, Dad was there for me more than he'd ever been when we lost Mom, and I loved him for that. Although Vesta hadn't actually said anything, her displeasure was obvious.
Now she was holding out a tentative olive branch.
"I'm not ready to let it go out of the family," my grandmother had said. "And I'd hate to see the old place empty after all these years; besides, it is part of your heritage, Minda."
Heritage. Right now I could do without it, I thought. But even here I couldn't escape. My great-grandmother, Lucy Westbrook, and her sister, Annie Rose, who was only sixteen when she drowned in the Saluda River, had both attended Minerva Academy.
While still a schoolgirl, Lucy had written and stitched the school's alma mater that hung, I noticed, to the right of the mantel. A talented artist, musician, and seamstress, Lucy seemed to excel at everything. Our family home was filled with her paintings, and the local paper had published her verses on a regular basis.
The room seemed suddenly silent, and I glanced about to find myself alone. Someone was pounding on the front door, and Gertrude and her brother had gone to let them in. I supposed it was the coroner and I should go as well, but I held back. I couldn't bear to look at Cousin Otto again.
Instead I wandered over to examine my ancestor's handiwork. I had been in this building on several occasions, yet I had never taken the time to read it.
The words were bordered in tiny six-petaled flowers, and at the bottom a larger flower of the same design held a star in its center. It seemed vaguely familiar, and then I remembered where I'd seen that emblem before. It was the design on the gold earring I'd found on the floor in the ladies' room. When I took it out to examine it, I found it wasn't an earring at all, but a pin. The gold six-pointed star in the center sat on a tiny circle of onyx; this was surrounded by six mother-of-pearl flower petals on an onyx circle rimmed in gold.
This was no ordinary bauble. I dropped it back into my pocket. Obviously it had significance or my great-grandmother wouldn't have incorporated it into her handiwork. But what was it doing here now almost a hundred years later on the floor of a toilet stall!
My great-grandmother had stitched her name, LUCY ARMINDA WESTBROOK, neatly at the bottom, along with the date, may 21, 1915. She would have been about sixteen or seventeen when she wrote it. I had inherited her middle name, but shared few of her talents, it seemed.
The verse was written in the style of the period and was sung, I'm told, during assemblies and other school functions, but the tune had been forgotten over the years.
The simple words portrayed a time of innocence, virtue, and unquestioning trust, and I felt a pang of jealousy for something my generation had seldom experienced.
WE SING THY PRAISE, MINERVA
WITH EVERLASTING PRIDE.
OF THY STATELY HALLS AND CHAMBERS
WHERE KNOWLEDGE DOTH ABIDE.
AGAINST THE GENTLE HILLSIDE,
BENEATH THE WILLOW'S SHADE,
YOUR WINDING PATHWAYS LEAD US
IN A NOBLE CAVALCADE.
BESIDE THE SWIFT SALUDA,
THAT DAILY SINGS YOUR NAME,
IN FRIENDSHIP AND IN WISDOM,
MINERVA, WE ACCLAIM!
The "swift Saluda" was where my great-grandmother's sister drowned, probably about a year after this verse was written. Annie Rose—and so like a rose according to family stories—sweet and pretty, just beginning to bloom.
And soon after that, a classroom building burned at the academy taking the brave young professor with it.
Minerva's alma mater didn't seem so guileless anymore.
Local legend claimed the town of Angel Heights took its name from the stone outcropping that was supposed to resemble an angel on the hill behind the village. It seemed to me if there really was an angel in Angel Heights it was time for her to flap down from her heavenly hill and "wing it" with the rest of us.
Chapter Two
I didn't expect to meet her so soon—the angel, I mean. Naturally, I didn't realize she was an angel right away, although she had the presence of one, with that church-window radiance and hair like old gold.
After leaving the academy later that afternoon, I collected the key to the home place from my grandmother and stopped there to dropoff some of my things. The family would be gathering at my cousin Gatlin's to make plans for Otto's funeral, and I didn't want to haul around my entire winter wardrobe, plus other essentials I'd brought from home—or what used to be home. The house Jarvis and I had built sold less than a month after I put it on the market, and our furniture was now in storage. Now I carried the memory of it like a hot coal somewhere below my heart.
"So, you've come. Good! It's cool out here." The woman called out to me from a porch rocker as I approached my grandmother's old home, and it startled me so I almost dropped the box of books I was carrying. The huge old magnolia in the front yard shaded the porch, and I could barely make out the vague silhouette of someone waiting there. The house had been empty for several months, and I didn't expect anyone to greet me. She stood briefly at the top of the steps in the fading rays of the afternoon sun, and for just a few seconds her hair looked… Well, it shimmered! She might have posed for paintings in the art history textbook I'd had in college, and though her face seemed motherly, it was hard to judge her age. But if this woman was older than forty, I'd like to know what kind of face cream she used.
She hurried to meet me, wading through curled brown leaves that plastered the flagstone walk, and in one graceful movement, she scooped up a heavy dictionary, a loose leaf cookbook compiled by my mother, and my well-worn copy of To Kill a Mockingbird that had skidded to the ground. "Please, let me help," the woman offered, and I accepted. Her voluminous skirt of sunset colors rustled when she walked, and a shawl that seemed to be knitted of iridescent silk floated after her. A flash of pink-painted toenails peeked from gold sandals with just the tiniest hint of a heel.
"Augusta Goodnight," the stranger said, introducing herself once the car was unloaded. She seemed to have made at least five trips to my two and wasn't the least bit winded. When she smiled, the calmness in her eyes washed over me, and for the first time since I'd found Cousin Otto I felt the tension ease.
"I thought you might like some of my apple spice muffins for your breakfast," she said, presenting me with a basket covered with a yellow flowered cloth.
She must be a neighbor, of course, and the muffins were a welcoming gesture. Or maybe she'd heard about Cousin Otto and gotten a head start on the funeral baking. But how could that be? It had been scarcely two hours since my grim discovery in the ladies' room.
I hesitated on the front steps with the basket in my hands and wondered if I should invite my neighbor inside. My grandmother—or someone—had remembered to turn on the heat, but the old house still had that stuffy, closed-up smell.
The woman smelled of summer and of the strawberry jam Mom used to make. When I looked into her eyes I thought of the lake at Camp Occoneechee, where I'd learned to swim as a child, whose waters made me feel part fish and all new.
"I'd ask you in," I began, "but Gatlin's expecting us soon for supper. I suppose you've heard about Otto?"
Augusta nodded, and for a moment the shadow of a frown clouded her eyes. "I'm so very sorry about that, Minda," she said, almost as if she blamed herself.
"I'll be staying at Gatlin's until after the funeral," I told her, "and I'm sure these muffins will be welcome there—especially with two hungry children. Gatlin says she can't seem to fill them up." I smiled. "I guess you know how that is."
Or not, I thought when she didn't answer. In spite of the age-old wisdom in her face, there was a look of almost childlike innocence about Augusta Goodnight.
"Gatlin has her hands full," I babbled on, "with all the relatives crowding in—including
me. And, of course, Otto's death is especially upsetting for Mildred and Vesta."
Now my visitor fingered the lustrous stones of amber and jade that circled her elegant neck and swung almost to her waist. "This is a difficult time for you, too, Minda, and I'm here to help where I can. I hope you'll remember that."
"Why… thank you," I said. Who was this person? Was she from one of those denominations that barge into your home and try to convert you to their religion? She hadn't mentioned a church—not yet, anyway—and thank goodness for that! I hadn't been too chummy with God since my mother died of cancer while I was still in high school.
Don't be so suspicious, Minda Hobbs, I told myself. She's probably just a helpful neighbor, although I thought I knew everyone on Vesta's street. "I'll be here until summer, at least," I told her, "so I expect I'll be seeing you again."
Augusta Goodnight spoke softly. "You can count on that," she said, and then added something about unfinished business in Angel Heights.
I turned to put the basket of muffins in the car, and when I looked back, she was gone.
Everyone says my cousin Gatlin looks more like my mother, Beth, than I do, and sometimes when I see her after having been away for a while, it ties my heart in a knot. It did today. Gatlin is petite, with auburn hair that curls about her face like Mom's did, huge, pansy-soft brown eyes, and freckles enough to share.
At five nine, I'm taller than most women, and I have hair like Dad's: straw-straight and yellow as butter. In snapshots of me as a toddler, my hair looked almost white. A towhead, Vesta called me. When my mother took me shopping, people sometimes made a fuss over my light hair, but I would have traded with Gatlin any day.
My cousin was five when I was born, and I followed her around like an inept gumshoe. She didn't seem to mind. And when I came to live with Vesta after Mom died, she became my best friend. She still is.
Now she met me at the door with her usual warm greeting, a hug and a kiss on both cheeks, although she had to stand on tiptoe to reach me; then she swept me into her wonderful, harum-scarum lifestyle. My young cousin clutched my sleeve, and the family's black lab, Napoleon, clamored to be petted.
Elizabeth (Lizzie), named for my mother, is ten and almost as tall as Gatlin already. "Minda! Come in the kitchen, I'm making spaghetti sauce," she said, grasping me by the arm. "I'm so glad you're here! Isn't it awful about Cud'in Otto? Mama says he probably drank himself to death." This last was supposed to be a whisper, but it was loud enough to elicit a loud "Shh!" and a warning look from my grandmother across the room.
I went over and kissed Vesta's cheek, which she offered, I thought, somewhat reluctantly. She seemed to be doing okay when I left her in Gatlin's capable hands at Minerva Academy, but she looked pale under her golfing tan, and I thought her hand trembled a bit. My grandmother had recently turned eighty, but she liked to joke that she looked only seventy-nine. Usually she seemed at least ten years younger, but not today. "Tell me what I can do to help," I said, trying to resist Lizzie's urgent tugs. "What about Faye?" At least I could keep an eye on Gatlin's youngest while Lizzie helped her mother in the kitchen.
My grandmother fluttered her fingers. "Farmed out with neighbors. You might look in on Mildred, though. Hank's given her a sedative, and she's resting in Lizzie's room."
Hank Smith and his wife were old friends of Vesta's, and although he'd retired from his medical practice, Vesta and her friends still called on him in emergencies.
"Speaking of neighbors," I said, "I met one at the old house today. Augusta Goodnight—sort of strange, but nice. Sent muffins that smell wonderful." I'd almost forgotten the basket I left by the door when I came inside. "Must be new in town; did she buy the Bradshaw place?"
"Augusta Goodnight? Never heard of her." Vesta closed her eyes and leaned back in the worn lounge chair that was usually occupied by Gatlin's husband, David. "The Historical Society bought that house back in the summer. Plan to have teas there, wedding receptions, things like that." She made a face. "Told 'em they'd better get ready to spend some money. Irene Bradshaw hasn't done a blessed thing to that house since she moved in fifty years ago!"
"Maybe she's visiting or something," I said.
But Vesta nixed that, too. No one she knew was expecting company, she told me. Even though my grandmother had moved from Phinizy Street, she still kept tabs on her old neighborhood.
I tiptoed back to Lizzie's room to find Mildred Parsons lying straight as a pencil and not much bigger among an array of teddy bears on Lizzie's pink Barbie spread. I couldn't remember when her hair had been anything but gray, but Gatlin said she used to be sort of a strawberry blond. Now, pink scalp showed through strands the color of dirty string. Her eyelids twitched slightly, but she seemed to be asleep. I listened to be sure she was breathing normally. Finding one corpse a day is more than enough for me!
Mildred is only a few years older than Vesta, but the years haven't treated her well. According to my grandmother, Mildred was in her early fifties when she came to keep house for Vesta's mother, Lucy, and moved in with the family. That was when she took Otto under her wing. A good thing, I guess, since his mother more or less abandoned him, and everybody says his father didn't have much time for him, either.
Otto's daddy was Vesta's brother, my great-uncle Edward, who still lived at home at the time. Mom said Otto's father traveled a lot in his work, and his mother had become so unhappy living with her husband's relatives in Angel Heights, she went back to her people somewhere out West. That left Mildred to raise Otto, who was about eight or nine years old.
When my great-grandmother, Lucy, died a few years later, my grandparents, Vesta and Charles Maxwell, "inherited" Mildred along with the family home. By then, my mother and Gatlin's were married with families of their own, and Mildred stayed on to do light housework and cook whatever Otto took a notion to eat.
"If Mildred hadn't babied him so much, Cousin Otto wouldn't be such a loser," Gatlin once confided, and maybe she had a point, but I didn't think anybody was prepared for our relative dying like he did.
"Just like Elvis," Gatlin said later. "They say he died on the toilet, too."
The two of us were relaxing at last with a glass of merlot and the last of the ham biscuits a neighbor had brought earlier. Vesta had persuaded Mildred to go home with her, and everyone else was tucked away for the night—including Otto, who had been carted away by the coroner before being turned over to Houn' Dawg Wilson (so named because of his mournful expression), who ran the Easy rest Funeral Parlor. "Customary procedure," we were assured, "in event of an unexpected death." And Cousin Otto, we learned, had probably been dead for almost twenty-four hours when I found him.
"Reckon what in the world made Otto pick the ladies' room—of all places—to die in," Gatlin said, reaching for the last ham biscuit.
"Too sick or too drunk to care, I guess," I said. "Maybe he never knew where he was, but what was he doing there last night? The only thing they found, other than his wallet and the usual stuff, was a dirty, wadded up handkerchief. Probably took it out to wipe his face before he took sick and died. The coroner says this must've happened before midnight. Looks like Mildred would've missed him if he didn't come home."
"Movies 'n' Munchies," my cousin said.
"What?"
"Movies 'n' Munchies. The Methodists sponsor a movie night for seniors the first Friday in the month. As far as I know, Mildred's never missed one. They have sandwiches and potato chips, and somebody brings dessert. This week I think they featured Van Johnson in one of those old war movies. Afterwards, Mildred went home and went to bed. When she woke up this morning, I guess she thought Otto had already left for the academy."
"What in the world will she do now?" I wondered. "Papa's Armchair will have to be sold, and I can't imagine her staying on there."
"She could live with Vesta, I suppose, but her place is small, and you know they don't get along so well. Besides, Vesta likes her space."
I didn't think Mildred had ever forgiven
my grandmother for moving into that condo and leaving Otto and her behind. It was like breaking upa family.
"There's plenty of room at the Nut House," I said. "Mildred lived there for a good part of her life; she should feel right at home, and it won't cost a cent."
The small living room was cluttered with cups and saucers, empty glasses, and crumpled paper napkins left by earlier callers, including Gertrude Whitmire and her brother Hugh, who still seemed to be in shock. I started to collect the dishes, stacking them on a bent Coca-Cola tray I recognized as Vesta's. "Hey, that'll wait," my cousin protested. "They'll still be there in the morning—I promise."
And so would I, I thought, and I'd rather not be faced with them, but I didn't say so. Gatlin looked tired and seemed to have something on her mind. I knew she was upset over Otto's death, as we all were, but I suspected something more. "Just don't ask me to do windows," I said, in my best proper-Mildred voice. "You know how my sciatica acts up when I overdo."
If I expected a smile from my cousin, I was disappointed. "Sorry, I shouldn't have said that. Especially now." I set down the tray and sat on the arm of Gatlin's chair. "You're worried about Mildred, I know. Do you think Otto's provided for her? Maybe the sale of the bookshop…"
Shadow of an Angle Page 2
