by Vicki Lane
The feeling of isolation fell away and Gloria returned from the mysterious mountaintop—What was that about?—to the here and now of the tacky little living room with its vinyl recliner and plastic-covered sofa. She saw her sister’s mouth parted in a mock O of astonishment and she realized that her own mouth had been gaping open in a most unbecoming way.
Miss Birdie kept a firm hold on Gloria’s hand and shot an amused look back at Elizabeth. “Reckon there’s some would call me a witchy-woman though I didn’t have aught to do with none of that for many a year. It was on account of Luther didn’t like me using Granny’s charms—he said it weren’t in Scripture. But I believe he’s done changed his mind now.”
A puzzled frown replaced the O. “I don’t see how—”
Just like Lizzy to forget the whole reason we’re here, thought Gloria as she overrode her sister’s protestations. “Really, Lizzy, don’t you think you ought to call Ben? And those Mexicans of yours too? Warn them to be on the lookout.”
“Their names are Julio and Homero and they’re not my Mexicans,” Elizabeth snapped. “Miss Birdie, may I use your phone?”
“Why, you go right ahead, honey. Me and your little sister’ll step into the kitchen and I’ll put some bam gilly on that burn.”
Gloria let herself be led into the adjoining room. Behind her, Lizzy was saying, “If you get this message …” Obviously Ben or the Mexicans hadn’t picked up.
In the kitchen a comforting smell of baking hung in the air, teasing her nose with familiar scents—sweet, spicy, but nameless. Like cookies or cake—that was the best she could do to identify the tantalizing aromas. A shiny white wood-burning cookstove, its vast black surface crowded with pots and pans, radiated an enveloping heat that seemed, somehow, pleasant rather than oppressive. Just inside the door a dinette set occupied half of the floor space. The turquoise and gray plastic-topped table with matching chairs was straight from the fifties, she thought, and so tacky that it would probably be called “retro” by some designers.
“Come over here by the back door, honey, where we can get the breeze,” the little woman urged her and Gloria did as she was told.
“I finally got hold of Ben,” Elizabeth announced a quarter of an hour later, coming into the kitchen where Miss Birdie was spreading a yellowish, sweet-smelling ointment over Gloria’s inner arm. “He was down in the lower pasture sawing up a tree that had fallen on the fence. The Hummer must have gone up our road while the saw was running because he didn’t see it till it was coming back down and heading for the hard road. Ben said that bothered him so he jumped on his four-wheeler to try to catch the vehicle and find out who it was. But just as he was about to catch up with it, the Hummer got to the hard road and took off around the mountain.”
Miss Birdie looked up from her doctoring. “Are you talking about that great black vehicle? Was that what you uns was hiding from?”
Then, of course, there were explanations—of a sort. Gloria wondered why the little old woman didn’t ask more questions as Elizabeth sketched out a brief version of why Gloria was in hiding but Miss Birdie simply nodded and offered to let them know if she saw “that great ugly black vehicle” another time.
“And she will too,” Elizabeth had promised. “Miss Birdie’s a one-woman Neighborhood Watch. She always keeps an eye on the road and pays attention to who’s going where.”
The Neighborhood Watch had insisted on driving them back to Full Circle Farm. “Iffen that feller’s such a fearsome somebody that you uns had to hide up in my laurel bush, then it wouldn’t do for him to find you walking on the road and no one in sight, now would it?”
Even Lizzy didn’t argue—it was obvious, thought Gloria, that no one argued with Miss Birdie—and they had all three climbed into the old pickup for the short ride up the road to the farm’s driveway.
There had been no further sign of the Hummer and Miss Birdie had let them out at Elizabeth’s workshop. Gloria watched the truck as it rattled down the driveway, Miss Birdie’s white head barely visible in the rear window.
What was it about this old country woman that was so calming … so … almost … wise? Gloria was reminded of a spiritual workshop she had attended where a yoga teacher had had just such an effect on her—briefly causing her to imagine laying a trusting hand in the brown palm of the guru and following wherever he led.
Fortunately that feeling had passed. She couldn’t really imagine a life of chastity, simplicity, and chanting. But during the short time she and Miss Birdie had been alone together, that same seductive feeling had crept over her. She had felt like a little girl again, safe in an adult’s comforting embrace.
Miss Birdie makes me think of Gramma. I used to believe that Gramma could do anything. Lizzy was her favorite, though. She and Gramma were thick as thieves. I remember Mother saying that. “Thick as thieves, those two. Your sister would rather listen to your grandmother talk about that wretched little dirt farm she grew up on and the smelly chickens—chickens! I ask you. Never mind, Gloria, you and I’ll have a girlie day together in town shopping … and if there’s time, we’ll get our nails done …”
“… or I can take you up to the house. Glory, did you hear me?”
Elizabeth was staring at her with real concern on her face. Gloria shook herself out of the reverie.
“Sorry, Lizzy, what did you say?”
“I asked do you want me to drive you up to the house? I need to get an order ready before Julio does the delivery run. It won’t take long and it’s not lunchtime yet … if you wanted to hang out with me, we could talk …”
Lizzy actually sounded apologetic and a little … humble? Was that the word? Maybe she believes me now about Jerry. The Eyebrow showing up proves Jerry’s after me. Gloria looked toward the barn with the faded red paint.
“Sure,” she agreed. “I’d like to see what it is you do in here.” She followed Elizabeth into the cavernous workshop, filled with bins and baskets and several huge tables. Shelves lined two of the walls, overflowing with mysterious jars and containers. A large flat basket draped with a damp towel lay on a workbench to one side.
“Rosemary and lavender trimmings,” Elizabeth said, pulling back the towel to reveal a pile of sweet-smelling sprigs of green-gray foliage. She reached to switch on the overhead lights. “It’s really too early to be pruning them but the woman having this party was willing to pay whatever I asked if she could just have six little fresh wreaths as centerpieces. She mentioned some spiritual reason it had to be fresh rosemary and lavender but I forget what it was. Anyway, I named a price so outrageous that I thought she’d back out but it didn’t faze her. So Julio cut these for me this morning.”
Elizabeth rummaged in a blue plastic bin and emerged with six fat rings of some dark green material.
“This is great stuff—it’s been soaking in water and now we just stick the herb sprigs all over each wreath form and voilà—a fancy-schmancy fresh herb wreath!”
She placed the green rings on a long rectangle of mottled white plastic that was spread on the big worktable. “This is where my old shower curtain liners go when I can’t get the mildew off them anymore. So, Glory, want to make a wreath?”
Gloria protested that she was no good at crafts, that she would mess it up, that she didn’t think she—but Elizabeth paid no attention and handed her a ring to work on.
“Like I said, just jab the stems in the foam. You want to kind of alternate the rosemary and the lavender and put them close enough together that none of the green foam stuff shows, okay?”
And Elizabeth turned away and began poking the little sprigs into the damp foam of the circle before her. After watching for a moment, Gloria reached for a silvery sprig and sniffed at it. So this was lavender! It smelled just like the divine French paper that lined her lingerie drawers and linen closet back home.
She made a tentative stab into the green material. To her surprise, the stem sank in without the least resistance.
A sideways glance revealed Elizabet
h working with steady precision, her right hand implanting a sprig as her left reached for another. About a third of the ring bristled with the fragrant herbs.
With her left hand, Gloria reached for the rosemary.
They worked in a companionable silence. Gloria found herself enjoying the task—the sight of the little wreath growing beneath her fingers, the pungent smell of the herbs, the rhythm of her movements, and the muted sound of classical music on the radio.
She became aware that her sister was watching her—that deep blue gaze that could make her feel so uncomfortable—and she stopped, a sprig of lavender poised just above the partially finished wreath. “What? Am I doing it wrong?”
Elizabeth’s expression softened. “No, Glory, it’s perfect. I was wondering if the burn was still bothering you—maybe we ought to go get some real burn ointment.”
“It’s quit bothering me completely.” Gloria turned her hand palm up to show the tender inner arm. A few pale yellow streaks of Miss Birdie’s concoction remained but the skin beneath was no longer red.
Elizabeth leaned in for a closer look. “But there were blisters … I saw them. Weren’t there? … What was in that ointment anyway?”
Gloria returned to the rhythm of her wreath. Pick up, push in, pick up, push in. “Miss Birdie called it bam gilly. It’s crushed-up buds of balm of Gilead, whatever that is. She said that her grandmother used to mix them with bear grease or hog lard but she uses sweet oil—whatever that is—and petroleum jelly.”
She couldn’t help noticing that Elizabeth was still staring at the place where the burn had been, staring and shaking her head in disbelief.
“There were blisters. It was a bad burn, I know it was. And she just put this … this stuff on it and it healed, is that what you’re saying?”
Gloria wedged in a final piece of rosemary. “Actually, first she said some words—something about angels and fire and frost—while she kind of fanned at the place with her hand. She called it drawing the fire out. She said the words over and over and by the time she put the ointment on, the blisters were gone and the redness had faded. She’s an amazing healer, Lizzy, just like this holy man I met at a spiritual retreat in California.”
“Really?” Once more Gloria felt the penetrating blue stare. “So you and Miss Birdie hit it off right away?”
Was that a note of disapproval in Lizzy’s voice?
Gloria lifted her chin. “Yes, as a matter of fact, we did. She reminded me of Gramma … and she was so easy to talk to. I told her about—”
“Perdóname, Elizabeta, the truck, it is ready.”
It was one of the Mexicans standing in the doorway—a short, square, dark-skinned man wearing new jeans, a freshly ironed blue cowboy shirt, and shiny cowboy boots. He ducked his head at Gloria and smiled.
Gloria watched as the two wreaths she had completed—They’re just perfect, Glory! Excellent work!—were packed with the others into a plastic box and handed over to Julio. I wonder what Lizzy gets paid for these. I’ve never done anything to make money—except get married.
“These are the directions.” Elizabeth handed Julio a printed sheet. “It’s two streets after the turn to El Chalapa. That’s where you and Homero usually stop for lunch, right?”
Julio nodded. “Sí, we eat in the room with the TV grande. Homero, he likes the telenovelas. Pero yo—me gusta la lucha libre. El Scorpion—”
A whistle shrilled outside. “Hombre, vamos! Mira la hora!”
Julio grinned and picked up the box of wreaths. “Today they show his favorite: Los Ricos También Lloran—‘The Rich, They Cry Too.’ ”
As he hurried out the door, Gloria heard his words echoing in her mind. The rich, they cry too. She felt her eyes filling with tears and lifted her hand to brush them away. The scent of rosemary clung to her fingers.
Chapter 10
The Green-Eyed Monster
Wednesday, May 16
Gloria was uncharacteristically silent as we drove to the house. Usually she’s doing that southern lady thing of not letting a silence fall. But she sat quiet in the passenger seat, not even responding as we jolted over a freshly dug and particularly deep water break.
Ben had been out with the tractor early that morning, cleaning ditches and redigging the water breaks. I’d suggested earlier that he and Amanda join us for breakfast while Gloria was here but he’d just laughed, saying that their days had to start much earlier than his mother’s. Dinner now and then, he added, would be the best thing for all involved.
I knew what he meant. I’d seen him bristle under Gloria’s annoying, though well-meant, interference and had seen him bite his lip more than once as his mother began to question Amanda about her sudden decision to abandon a lucrative career in modeling for life on the farm. “Really, Amanda, back home everyone’s wondering … I heard you had an eating disorder and your doctor absolutely forbade …”
Amanda, with far more forbearance than I could ever have shown, had maintained a cool and unruffled calm through the interrogation, laying an admonitory hand on Ben’s when he looked as if he might explode as his mother asked yet another prying question. “Was it the kind where you don’t eat or was it the other one—where you eat a lot and then make yourself throw up?”
That beautiful long-fingered hand and a sideways glance had been all it took to remind Ben that Amanda was perfectly capable of fighting her own battles. But he had pleaded too much work on almost every occasion I’d asked the two of them to dinner and consequently Gloria had seen very little of her only child.
Suddenly I felt sorry for my little sister.
And found myself doing the southern lady thing as the silence in the Jeep began to seem oppressive.
“You know, Glory, I’m really glad you liked Miss Birdie. I wasn’t sure you two would find much to talk about but—what did you talk about anyway? She and I usually stick to beans and gardens and quilts—all the old-timey stuff, I guess. We—”
“She told me about her angels.” There was a strange, eager excitement in Glory’s voice as she continued. “You know, all those babies that died before the last one finally lived? She told me how she talks to them, up in the graveyard … all her lost babies …”
Her voice cracked and she turned away. As soon as I pulled to a stop in the shade of the pear tree, her door was open before I’d turned off the ignition.
“I’ll grab a quick shower before lunch, Lizzy.”
And she was gone, power walking her way up the path, leaving me dangling somewhere between confusion and jealousy. Jealousy is so unattractive. What’s the bloody matter with me anyway?
I took a deep breath and got out of the car to follow her. It occurred to me to wonder if the Hummer had made it up this far before turning around but the gravel of the driveway held no clues. A powerful vehicle like the Hummer could creep slowly up the steep road, without any telltale spinning and gravel-spraying.
And if it really was this Eyebrow fellow, wouldn’t he have waited and confronted Gloria? What would be the point …?
There were too many unknowns in this problem. If it is a problem and not just more of Glory’s histrionics. She really didn’t seem that worried, once I told her Ben had seen the Hummer leave. I thought for sure she’d be wanting me to call Phillip and get the sheriff involved. Have him put out an APB or something.
Remembering that I needed to fix lunch, I abandoned my scrutiny of the uncommunicative driveway and headed for the porch. As I drew near, I could see Ursa and Molly wagging a welcome at the top of the steps but there was no sign of James. Probably followed his new love into her room, I thought, dropping into a rocking chair to give my faithful girls a little attention.
Did Glory get that right, I wondered, about Birdie talking to her dead babies? Miss Birdie’d never told me she did anything like that. Of course I knew about the children she’d lost—had even gone to the cemetery with her on numerous Decoration Days and left a flower on each tiny grave.
So common, those little graves�
�back when the mountain women mostly gave birth at home with nothing in the way of prenatal care and not much money to pay a doctor should a child fall ill.
Molly nosed at my hand, inviting me to scratch behind her long ears. As I did, first automatically checking for ear mites, the thought came to me: My dogs have probably gotten far more medical attention than the mountain people of Birdie’s youth—more and better too.
What was the disease that Birdie had told me accounted for so many of those sad little graves in the family cemeteries at most mountain farms? Some form of diarrhea or infant dysentery …
Oncet hit takes a hold, she had said, every drop of milk just runs right through them. That’s what took my first, my Britty Birdsong. Aye law, the summer complaint, hit was a cruel hard thing—
Oh, yes, Miss Birdie had told me about her lost babies … and yes, she’d called them her angels. But talking to them up in the graveyard? Glory must have misunderstood—she hadn’t been here long enough to get the hang of the accent. Talking to dead babies didn’t sound like the Birdie I knew.
I was putting the salads on the table—my first plan had been pimento cheese sandwiches but the memory of Gloria’s comments about weight control and her meaningful glance at my hips had won out—when she reappeared, freshly bathed and shampooed, and wearing a sleeveless caftan sort of thing in a delicate pale coral. Embellished with intricate silver-threaded embroidery at the neckline, it was pretty enough to be an evening gown but evidently my sister saw it as loungewear.
Lunch was a somewhat silent ordeal. Gloria picked at her salad, still in an unnaturally quiet mood. At first I resisted making small talk but, finally, the stillness began to feel oppressive again and I tossed a conversational ball into the air.
“What was that you were telling me about a weekend workshop in Hot Springs? Is it something you’re planning on going to?”
That didn’t come out well. It sounds as if I’m trying to get rid of her.
