by Ann Tatlock
Steve, sitting beside me, gave off a guttural sound, wiped his mouth with his napkin and said, “Well, I think we can agree it’s got potential. Could be fixed up real nice someday.”
We fit easily around the large table in the dining room, one of two rooms at the back of the house, the other room being the kitchen. The dining room is large and airy, full of light and filled with a curious mix of furniture: a china buffet, a commode table with a porcelain washbowl and pitcher, a fainting couch, a Singer sewing machine with a foot-operated treadle, and several small serving tables, one of which holds a phonograph and a dozen or so albums. The widow must have enjoyed listening to music while she ate. The floor is bare, the wood smoothed and dulled by decades of footfalls. Of course, there is no wall-to-wall carpeting anywhere in the house, only the occasional woven rug. Some of the items cluttering the rooms are so old, like the phonograph and the commode table, that surely they must have already been here when the widow moved in.
“I wonder why the widow didn’t will the place to her children when she died,” I remarked.
Linda, with that indelible teenaged smirk of hers, sneered, “We should be so lucky.”
Donna smiled at Linda, then explained, “She didn’t have any children. She didn’t have any will, for that matter. The place was auctioned off by the county after she passed away. It’s just as it was when she lived here, furniture and all.”
“No kidding,” Linda said. “I never would have guessed.”
“That’s enough, Linda,” Sheldon said.
“When she died,” Jeff sputtered, so eager to tell the tale that little missiles of spit shot from his mouth, “she lay dead in her bed for a week before anyone found her.”
Linda stared at her cousin for a moment in disgust. “Oh great,” she finally said. “And I know just which bed it was too.” She then glanced at her father, daring him to reprimand her. He didn’t.
“You’re gross, Jeff,” Marjorie piped up.
“Yes, Jeff, we really don’t need your comments,” Donna added. “And you know not to talk with your mouth full.”
“So,” I said, smiling around the table and trying to keep the conversation light, “do you know when the house was built?”
Donna shook her head. “I don’t know for sure. You could check with county records over in Asheville, though, if you really want to know.”
“Sometime before the fall of Rome would be my best guess.” Linda, of course. Why can’t she just be sullen and silent rather than sullen and sarcastic? It gets to be so tiresome.
“Well, listen,” Steve said brightly, “tomorrow’s Saturday. Normally I’m working, but I can let my people handle things alone for one day. Why don’t we come pick you up in the van and show you the town?”
“Sure, Steve,” I said, “that’ll be fine.”
“We might as well start to learn our way around,” Sheldon added.
“Ho boy, I can hardly wait.” Linda again. Of course.
So later today, they will come and show us the town. For now, while the coffee percolates, I sit in one of the rocking chairs in front of the fireplace. My mind drifts to Carl, and I wonder what he is doing right now, there on the other side of the world. I cannot begin to picture where he is. But then, neither can he begin to picture where we are, here in this strange and solitary house high on the side of a mountain. Funny, isn’t it, the places we end up, the places to which human folly takes us?
6
Sheldon
Saturday, July 13, 1968
BLACK MOUNTAIN IS a pretty little town. Built on the banks of the Swannanona River, it fans out across the valley and slopes upward toward the hills. Steve, from his perch in the driver’s seat, rambles on about the place with obvious pride, pointing out historic landmarks like we’re a group of paying tourists on a sightseeing expedition.
In fact, it was tourism, Steve explains, that caused the town to mushroom in the first place. It wasn’t long after the white settlers arrived in the late eighteenth century that word of the valley and its beauty spread eastward across the Piedmont. Soon, the well-to-do started arriving from the lowlands in search of fresh air, pure mountain water, and relief from the summer heat, with a host of hotels and inns springing up to accommodate them. These tourists came by stage at first, and then, after the Civil War when the track was finally completed, they came by train. When the health benefits of the mountain air were realized, sanitariums appeared for the treatment of tuberculosis, attracting the afflicted from up and down the East Coast and as far west as the Great Plains.
“That’s one of them right there,” Steve says, pulling over and pointing to a two-story building set back from the road. “See those screened-in porches? They wrap around the whole building like that. That’s where the patients slept, summer and winter. Rest and fresh air—that was about all they could do for TB back then.”
“What’s the building used for now?” Meg asks.
“Reform school for juvenile delinquents,” Steve explains.
“Oh, so that’s the high school,” Linda mutters in the back seat. Jeff, beside her, gives a frustrated sigh for the umpteenth time since we started out, but other than that, no one responds to her latest quip.
Steve rejoins traffic and heads down the road again.
We are all of us squeezed into the van, the four Birchfields and the four Cranes. Marjorie sits on Donna’s lap and Digger on mine. It was a year or more ago when Digger started saying he was too big to sit on my lap anymore. I’m glad to have an excuse for him to sit here again. He has absently thrown an arm around my neck, and I would like to keep it there forever.
We wind through the outlying streets of Black Mountain, passing every kind of dwelling imaginable—from single-wide trailers to modest homes to larger Victorian-style dwellings. A number of the latter have been turned into inns or bed and breakfasts. We drive by Town Hall and the combination police and fire station, then on out toward a recreational area called Lake Tomahawk.
“We’ve got everything here you could want,” Donna assures us. And as she begins to list the attractions of the park—swimming, boating, tennis, fishing, picnicking, golf—I turn slightly in anticipation of another comment from Linda. But I see that she is slouched down in her seat with her eyes closed. I can only imagine what is going on in that thorny head of hers. Perhaps it’s best I don’t know. The not-knowing leaves me with a modicum of hope.
“Well, we’ll have to come out here for a picnic,” Meg says. She’s trying very hard to sound cheerful. I admire her for that.
Steve makes a gravel-crunching U-turn in the road and heads south toward the center of town. The heart of Black Mountain is a small patchwork of intersecting streets with only sporadic traffic. The main thoroughfare, State Street, turns into Route 70 just beyond the west edge of town. If you stay on Route 70 for twenty minutes, Steve says, you end up in Asheville.
A couple of cross streets bisect State Street and slope downward toward Sutton Avenue, which parallels the railroad tracks and, in some spots, the Swannanona River. This place is quintessential America. Small store-front shops of red brick, plate glass, and awnings. A general store, a furniture store, a couple of cafes, a bakery. A barbershop and a beauty parlor are right next door to each other. The street that meets Sutton at the train depot—that’s Cherry Street. The next street over is Broadway. Up this way are antique shops and second-hand bookstores, the post office, a drug store, a shoe store. At least that’s what I take in as we drive through town.
Digger drops his head to my shoulder and squeezes my neck. He would rather be outside playing. I don’t want to be anywhere other than right here with my son on my lap.
“Okay, folks,” Steve announces, “let’s go on over to the car lot. See where you’ll be working come Monday, Shel.”
My mood suddenly drops by a dozen degrees. Not that it was very high to begin with.
“That’d be great, Steve,” I manage to say. I glance at Meg in the front passenger seat. She doesn’t lo
ok at me. But then, she hasn’t really looked at me for a couple of months now.
We drive back down Broadway and bounce over the railroad tracks. Digger, who’s been shifted by the bump, inches back up in my lap. He raises his head and looks around.
In another moment, Steve pulls off onto a side road that leads eventually to the seemingly massive encampment known as Birchfield Chevrolet. We ease into a lot decked out with pennant streamers and filled with rows of cars glinting in the mid-afternoon sun. In every windshield is a sign that begins with the word “Only” and ends with an exclamation point, with a number in between that is greater than any number I have ever once seen in my bank account.
“This is the lot for new cars,” Steve says. “This is where I work and where we do most of our business. Now on the other side of the building”—he points to the glassy, flat-roofed building that is obviously Birchfield’s main office—“is the used car lot. That’s where you’ll be, Shel.”
We wade through the sea of multi-colored 1968 models and head over to the older vehicles around the back. Steve parks in an empty slot but leaves the engine idling and the air on. This lot is just as big as the new car lot, but the cars on this side of the office are a little less shiny, less expensive, less inviting. Here they are, endless rows of them, my new congregation, and my four-wheeled metal-and-chrome sheep. These cars will be my responsibility now, my life’s work.
“That’s the used lot’s office,” Steve says. He points again, this time to a pale yellow trailer propped up on a cinder block foundation. “You’ll share that space with Ike Kerlee, the other used car salesman. Ike’s been with me fifteen years. Nice guy. He’ll be able to answer any questions you have.”
I should say something. I know I should. But I can’t think of a single response.
Undeterred, Steve goes on, “I’ve got twenty employees here, counting the salesmen, the service and parts managers, the mechanics, a couple of secretaries, and a bookkeeper. We do a good business, with people coming from everywhere to buy our cars, some coming from as far away as South Carolina, Tennessee, even Georgia. Now we like to have a bit of fun around here too, Shel. Every month we tally up the sales and see who’s brought in the most in the way of profits. Top salesman for that month gets a free pass for two at one of the restaurants here in town.”
Behind me, I hear Linda say quietly, “Lucky you, Dad.”
Yeah. Lucky me.
“Now, the first thing we’re going to do Monday morning is fix you up with a couple of Chevys,” Steve says. “One for you, Shel, and one for Meg. The first one you can consider a fringe benefit of the job. That one’ll come off the used lot. The second one’ll be new, but it’ll come at a good price. We’ll take the payments right out of your paycheck, Shel. Come Monday, you can get rid of that junk heap you’ve been driving around ever since I’ve known you.”
I am slightly taken aback. “The Pontiac’s only nine years old, and it still runs well, Steve.”
“Yeah, well, you can’t work for Birchfield Chevrolet and still be driving a Pontiac. See what I mean?”
I acquiesce and nod my head. My life is in Steve Birchfield’s hands.
“We’ll get you something nice. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Sis?”
He turns and looks at Meg, who smiles. “Sure, Steve. A new car would be nice. Anything new would be nice.”
I’m stung by the slap of her words. I have seldom been able to give her anything new.
Steve turns as far around as he can in his seat now, shining his benevolent smile upon us. “So,” he says cheerfully, “what do you say we go get some ice cream? Right up on Cherry Street is the best ice cream parlor in the whole of the Blue Ridge Mountains.”
Well, I guess this means I have a lot to be thankful for, doesn’t it? An office in a yellow trailer, a Chevy I don’t need, and the best ice cream in this entire area right at my disposal. What more could a man want?
7
Linda
Saturday, July 13, 1968
POP’S ICE CREAM Parlor. Holy Toledo, just look at this place. Antique junk everywhere and radio and movie stuff from when my parents were kids. Or maybe even longer ago than that. How tacky can you get? I mean, just check out the posters. “Gone With the Wind” and “It’s A Wonderful Life” and “Little Rascals” and “The Wizard of Oz.” This place is one totally uncool sentimental journey with not a single thing from the sixties. I ought to sneak one of my Grateful Dead posters in here and tack it up on the wall beside Scarlett O’Hara—yeah, or maybe one of Jimi Hendrix burning his guitar on stage while he’s high as a kite. That ought to knock some hillbilly socks off.
Everyone’s standing at the counter trying to decide what they want and saying there’s just too much to choose from. You’ve got to be kidding me. You’d think we were at Howard Johnson’s trying to choose from twenty-eight flavors, instead of at this no-place hole-in-the-wall that has three flavors besides vanilla. I mean, look at everyone. All excited because they have mint chocolate chip in the freezer. Like that’s something to throw a party about.
There’s a really fat lady behind the counter scooping up a chocolate cone for Digger. Every time she takes a stab at the ice cream her arm wiggles back and forth like Jell-o. I think she must have been eating a whole lot of her own ice cream on the sly to get that fat.
Uncle Steve decides to introduce her to Mom and Dad. He tells the lady we just moved to town, and the lady hoots and hollers like it’s the best thing to happen to her in a long time. “Well, welcome!” she says. “Glad to meetcha. I’m Gloria Reynolds.”
She holds out a hand to shake, and it must have been sticky because afterward Mom takes a napkin and tries to wipe her palm without anyone noticing.
“Hope y’all will be real happy here in Black Mountain,” Gloria Reynolds says.
“I’m sure we will,” Dad says while he flashes her this really fake smile. The big liar, at it again. Can’t even make small talk without lying through his teeth.
“I’m happy!” Digger yells, and everyone laughs at him because he’s got ice cream all over his face and dripping from his chin. Stupid kid.
Finally, everyone except me decides what they want, and Gloria’s arm is flapping like a flag in a hurricane because she’s working so hard filling the orders. Finally she looks at me and says, “So what can I get you?”
A one-way ticket out of here, I want to say, but instead, I tell her to give me a plain vanilla. While she’s scooping it up she glances at me and says, “And what’s your name, pretty miss?”
The hair on the back of my neck bristles. This lady’s giving me the creeps. I make sure I’m not smiling when I tell her my name.
“Well, Linda,” she says, waving the ice cream scoop and throwing vanilla raindrops all over the counter. “Would you by any chance be looking for a job? I could use some part-time help around here.”
Holy cow, lady, do I look like I’m looking for a job? I thought this was an ice cream parlor, not an employment agency. I shrug. “I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe.”
“You could work full-time till school starts. After that, you can work after school and weekends.”
“Weekends?”
“Saturday nights, mostly. We’re closed on Sundays.”
“Saturday nights, huh? Well, I don’t know. It might interfere with my dating life.”
“I can offer ten cents over minimum wage.”
“Yeah? Wow, I’d be rich.”
“Well, you think about it and let me know.”
She hands me the ice cream cone with a smile. I take it and mumble thanks. I’m about to join everyone else at one of the tables when Digger comes back up to the counter. “What do you want now?” I ask him because I can see he’s finished his cone.
“I just want to ask this lady a question,” he says, pointing with his thumb toward Gloria Reynolds.
She’s wiping her hands on her apron, but she stops and looks at Digger. “Ask away, little man,” she says.
�
��I’m just wondering,” Digger says. “Do you happen to know where Mac lives?”
Gloria’s face scrunches up like she’s tasting something sour. “Who’s Mac?” she says.
Digger shrugs. “Just some kid I met. His real name’s Malcolm and he lives around here somewhere.”
“Where’d you see him?”
“Up at my house.”
“What’d he look like?”
“I don’t know. Like a regular kid, I guess.”
I’ve been licking my ice cream cone, but I stop long enough to say, “There hasn’t been anyone at the house besides us and the cousins.”
“Well, Mac was there too,” Digger says.
“He was not,” I say. “You’re making that up.”
“Am not.”
“Yes, you are.”
Next thing I know, Gloria Reynolds is hollering across the room at my cousins, “Hey Jeff, Marjorie! You two know a boy by the name of Mac?”
They shake their heads and shrug. They don’t say anything because they’re too busy eating their cones.
Gloria looks at Digger and gives him that I’ll-play-along-with-you kind of smile that grown-ups are always giving kids. “You’ll see Mac once school starts, I bet,” she says.
“But that’s a long time from now,” Digger says. “I was hoping he could come over and play sometime.”
“Well, now he knows you’re here, he’ll show up again. Don’t you worry. And if a boy named Mac ever comes in for ice cream, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.”
“Thanks, lady.”
“Now what’s your name again?”
“Digger Crane.”
“All right, Digger. Listen, you like Wrigley’s spearmint gum?”
“You bet!”
“Here.” She picks up a pack from the display and hands it to him. “It’s on the house. Sort of a welcome gift. But you got to share it with Mac.”
“Thanks, lady! I will!”
