Earth Colors

by Sarah Andrews

  Hang on to your anger, I told myself. It’ll keep you alert.

  Before last night’s blowup, my seat-of-the-pants plan had been to telephone Tert at his office and extract an introduction to his mother so I could see the paintings. Now that I had been told not to go there, I decided I had nothing to lose by contacting her anyway and seeing what happened. But I would wait until eight.

  I glanced at my watch again. It was seven-fifteen. If they truly were a true farm family—which I doubted—they would be up already and have half the chores done; but if they were typical Easterners, they were probably still asleep, or would consider me rude to phone so early. Itching to get started with something—anything—I decided to drive out to the farm and take a look. If I saw people up and about, I’d drop in and introduce myself as Faye’s pal. If they took a pitchfork to me, I’d know she’d phoned ahead. If she hadn’t, and they were amenable, I might get a squint at the paintings and get out of there with little fuss. Not that the paintings would do me any good now—there was no way these people would let me analyze their pigments—but having come all this way to see the artwork, I was damned well going to see it.

  As a last point of justification for my mania, I reminded myself that Tert was hiding something, and that I needed to know what that was. I had run into this kind of thing on previous cases, and had learned I could not solve the client’s puzzle without first knowing why the client was lying to me, and what he was trying to hide.

  I got into the car and started to drive. North of town, in the soft light of that early-spring morning, I at last viewed the farmlands for which Lancaster County was famous. The patchwork of fields rolled out from either side of the road. They were neatly tended, with crops planted right up to the edge of the pavement, not a hedgerow or boundary fence in sight. The farmhouses were closer together than I was used to in the West, two-stories tall and built of stone. The barns were likewise made of stone up to the second story, where many of them gave over to wood, painted white.

  I wondered if some of the farms belonged to the Amish, a people synonymous with Lancaster County’s famous farmlands. Clearly Tert was not of that persuasion, although what I knew of the Amish went about as deep as cardboard: Amish people stayed on the farm. They did not drive automobiles, or use electric lights. I dared say that their ancestors did not take the train into New York City and purchase paintings by Frederic Remington. And they did not own hobby ranches west of Cody, Wyoming. They were “the plain folk” who were “in the world, but not of this world.” They wore unornamented clothing and lived simply, in order to escape temptation. The women made fabulous quilts using solid-color fabrics in fully saturated colors and no white. They were one of a list of Protestant Christian sects that had come over from Europe to escape persecution. They are easily confused with the Mennonites, from whom they had split off, and who have a similar story but drive cars, use white fabrics in their quilts, and often dress just like “the English.” The Mennonites seemed a more variable group. Were the Krehbeils Mennonites?

  It was not a simple matter to find the Krehbeil farm. The map of Pennsylvania I had with me showed only numbered highways, and I was looking for a farm road. Finally I stopped at a filling station and asked directions. Those instructions put me out onto a network of narrow blacktop roads that wound through shallow hills among farms broken up by narrow strips of housing developments featuring two-story mansionettes on quarter-acre spacing. Being ranch raised, it horrified me to see lines of houses backed up against such luscious croplands.

  When I at last found the road and the number that matched the Krehbeils’ address, I parked a short distance away and wandered along the verge to take a look.

  The day was proving to be quite mild, and the scents of the land rose to meet me. Flights of seed-eating birds and the first spring flowers lightened my heart. Then a car pulled out of the drive and zoomed past me, shattering my idyll. It was driven by a hulking man in his twenties—Then I heard a door slam, and saw a young woman with spiky hair and tattooed ankles slouch down across the lawn, light a cigarette, jump into a beat-up Toyota sedan, jab it into a fast start, and skid it backwards into a smuggler’s turn. She roared up to the pavement and ripped off down the road in the other direction without looking left or right to see if anyone was coming. I wondered who these two were, and whether I indeed had the correct farm. They didn’t have an ounce of the patrician classiness that oozed from Tert Krehbeil.

  The brick house was finer than any I had seen in the neighborhood, but the wooden trim was badly in need of paint, except the front door, which was a vivid yellow. It was two stories tall and surrounded on three sides by broad porches that sagged badly, and some of the ornamental woodwork had been broken away. In places, panes of glass were held together with duct tape. The screening on the front door was ripped. But overall, it had an imposing appearance, even in its obvious state of decline. It was a house that once had been quite grand, but was now all but falling down.

  The barn was large and finely crafted but the foundation stonework bulged downhill. There were no signs of recent usage. The track that led past it was tall with grasses where it should have been bald from traffic, and there were no splashes of mud along the wall.

  I checked and rechecked the address, incredulous that this was the home that had produced Tert Krehbeil.

  A sound from the front porch drew my attention back to the house. I saw the front door swing wide, and the feet of an elderly woman appeared, followed by a great wrapping of quilts and then by the rest of her figure seated in a wheelchair. The chair was pushed by a middle-aged woman who moved briskly, even brusquely, making the old woman’s head wobble on her narrow neck as the chair encountered bumps in the porch. She brought the chair to a stop at the sunny end of the porch and moved quickly about it, setting the brakes and stuffing loosened folds of the quilts into place around the older woman. From her pocket, she produced a knit hat and set it on the older woman’s head. This accomplished, she put her fists on her hips and leaned her head toward the white-haired ancient as if scolding her. Then she turned and left her to the morning breezes.

  The elderly woman looked like a nestling left behind while its parent searched for food. As the moments passed, her head bobbled with the rhythm of short, panting breaths, and she slowly tilted farther and farther forward in her chair.

  Robins hopped across the lawn in search of food. I could not believe from the outward appearance of the property that these people had a fortune in Western art on the premises. Had Tert invented the story of the family treasure? I struggled with conflicting emotions: I wanted to see the paintings and yet I did not want to meet these women. I wanted to know enough about them to justify my unease around Tert and yet did not want to become involved in the unpleasantness of their circumstances and manner.

  I was just preparing to flip a coin between leaving and heading up to the house to ask when something happened that precluded any other action: The elderly woman fell out of her chair.

  I rushed up the driveway toward the house, leapt up over the steps and across the boards, went down on both knees in front of her, and felt her ancient neck for a pulse. At my touch, her eyes opened and began rolling around. Tiny grunts emanated from her throat.

  “Are you all right?” I asked, foolishly. It was clear that she was not. Her skin was sallow and fit her like crumpled tissue paper, and her breath—even in the open air of an early-spring morning—stank of internal rot. Even after I helped her replace her glasses, her pale eyes did not focus on me, and were milky but charged with surprise. I put my hands under her head, felt for dampness and found none. Good, I decided, at least she’s not bleeding. “Are you in pain?” I asked.

  “Ah … ah … always, my dear,” she said. “Always. Getting old is not without its trials. But don’t worry about me.”

  Don’t worry? I took her frail old hands in mine and again felt for her pulse. It was faint and rapid. Her fingers were long and narrow, very elegant, but just as Hector
had said, they were ruined by painful-looking scars along the cuticles. “Can you stay like this a moment?” I asked. “I’ll run and get your daughter.”

  “Deirdre? No, don’t trouble her. She’s so overworked, poor dear.”

  I was certain now that I had the right house, but I didn’t know if Mrs. Krehbeil was displaying shock or just dementia. I said, “I’d offer to put you back in your chair, ma’am, but I don’t know what your situation is. You might have injuries. I’ll go fetch your daughter.”

  I rose and hurried to the front entrance and knocked on the screen door. No answer came. The inner door stood ajar, so I put my face to the opening and shouted, “Hello? Excuse me, but your mother has fallen from her chair!” Still no answer. I peeked inside. A gray tabby cat the color of Tert Krehbeil’s eyes scowled at me from a broad, gray sofa. The room was decorated with jarringly bad paintings, sentimental renderings of dripping foliage and turgid millponds, not museum-quality masterworks of Western action scenes.

  I glanced back toward the fallen woman. The quilts still moved up and down with her frail attempts to breathe. She was not making perfect sense, but she seemed reasonably stable. But I’ve got to do something, I decided.

  There was a cordless telephone lying on a table just inside the door. I decided to dodge in and grab it and dial 911.

  I opened the door and stepped inside. “Hello!” I shouted again. “Help! The lady on the front porch has fallen!” I took several more steps and called again, then listened.

  From the far end of the house, I heard a muffled, “Shit!” and then footsteps. The sound approached none too quickly. Finally the middle-aged woman whom I presumed to be Deirdre appeared at the far end of the central hall. When she spotted me, she said, “What is it?” none too kindly.

  “Your m—The old lady on the porch has fallen from her chair,” I said. “I don’t think she’s well.”

  “That’s an understatement,” said Deirdre. “Okay, okay.” She barged past me and out the door. As she turned and finally spotted her mother, she cried angrily, “Mother! Oh, good God!” and rushed towards her.

  I know the care of the elderly can be trying, but I found Deirdre’s attitude appalling. But this was a moment for action, so I grabbed the phone from its cradle and rushed out the door behind her. “Shall I call an ambulance?” I asked.

  Deirdre had crouched beside her mother. At the instant I said “ambulance,” she spun on her toes to face me, her eyes wide. “No!” she cried. “No, don’t do that! Give me that!” she demanded.

  I hurried to her and gave her the phone, expecting her to dial another number, perhaps someone who lived closer, but she snatched it from my hand and set it aside. “Just help me get her into the chair,” she said. “She’s fine, I’m sure of it. This happens all the time. She just wiggles her way out of it.”

  I moved into position and helped her lift the frail, old body of the woman, which seemed to weigh nothing. She was little more than a husk. We settled her back into the chair and covered her again.

  She appeared dazed, and her breathing still came in gasps, but she smiled pleasantly and, panting between words, said, “Thank you, Deirdre. And who is our visitor?”

  As Deirdre turned to second her mother’s inquiry with a raised eyebrow, I got control of my mouth and said, “Um, I’m—I was just driving past and I saw her lying here.”

  Deirdre gave me an artful smile that stopped halfway up her cheeks. “I do so appreciate your stopping,” she said, moving toward me as if to squeegee me off the porch.

  “Let me help you get her inside,” I said.

  “I’m sure I can make it.”

  She wasn’t going for the easy sell, so I affected a case of the vapors, waving my hand in front of my face as if I felt faint. “I’m sorry, but it seems I’m more upset by this than anyone. I need to sit a moment.” I thumped myself down on the bench.

  Old Mrs. Krehbeil said, “Deirdre, you run along and …” She stopped to pant. “Finish what you were doing.” Pant. “I’ll sit with our friend.” Pant. “I so seldom get a visitor.”

  Deirdre gave me a look like January in the Arctic. Then she turned abruptly and lumbered back into the house. She had a large frame, and moved like she was carrying a piano.

  I turned to Mrs. Krehbeil. “How are you feeling?” I inquired.

  “Fine,” she panted. “Sorry to trouble you. Won’t you have a seat?”

  I didn’t point out that I was already sitting.

  “I should introduce myself,” she wheezed. “I’m Mrs. Krehbeil, and this is my husband’s country home.” Her frail hand trembled through a grand gesture, upsetting her quilts. “We call it ‘Far Diggings.’” Pant. “It’s a name my father-in-law gave it.”

  “My name is Leila,” I said, giving my mother’s name to obscure my identity. “Far Diggings. Was your father-in-law an educated man, then? It doesn’t sound like a name a farmer would choose.”

  Her answer was a moment coming. “He was an industrialist,” she gasped finally, and again, “This was his country home.” She began to sag forward again.

  I edged toward her, ready to catch her if she leaned too far over again. “Oh? What was his business?”

  “Paint. Just exactly that shade.” She raised a shaking hand to point at the front door.

  “Ah.” So it was no wild coincidence that Tert had gone into an aesthetic enterprise. In an instant, I spun a whole history for the family, putting Krehbeil Primus at the apex of an expanding dynasty of gray-eyed men who held themselves in high esteem while they manipulated their women.

  Mrs. Krehbeil’s breathing seemed to have eased for a moment. “Deirdre is preparing a downstairs room for me,” she said conspiratorially. “My doctor said I should take the air, and we have no second-story porch. So she’s moving my things … .”

  I heard the door open behind me again, and Deirdre reappeared. “I’ll take you back inside now, Mother. Clearly Doc Abram’s idea was a bit premature.”

  “All right, dear,” the old girl gasped. “Oh, but Deirdre, when is William coming?”

  “He’s not coming today, Mother,” she said testily. Then, in a low, growling tone, she muttered, “You get sicker every time he comes. Don’t you think it best he stay away?”

  “My precious William. When did you say he was coming?”

  “Don’t wait up, Mom.” Deirdre unlocked the wheels and moved around behind the chair to push it back inside. I had to hustle to make it look like I was helping her with the doors, so efficient was the daughter, but, moving from door to living room to inner hallway at a good clip, I was able to keep ahead of Deirdre, all the time taking surreptitious glances at the drizzly paintings. At the far end of the hall, there was a small maid’s room with a hospital bed, sheets tight and blankets turned down.

  I helped Deirdre heft her mother into the bed and arrange the covers. “There,” she said, as she smoothed her white curls about her papery face,

  “you get some rest, Mother.”

  “Yes, dear.” The old woman dutifully closed her eyes.

  Deirdre indicated that I should lead the way out of the room. “Thank you for your assistance,” she said briskly.

  As I moved back into the hallway I smelled cinnamon and glanced into the kitchen, in hopes of obligating her to invite me there. “What smells so divine?” I gushed.

  Mrs. Krehbeil’s voice quavered from the small room. “Give her some toast and tea, dear.”

  Deirdre’s eyes closed. “Okay,” she said heavily. “Would you like some toast?”

  “I’d love some!” I drawled. By then I wanted to stay, not only so I could gather information, but also in some small way to inconvenience this creature who treated her ailing mother so churlishly.

  Deirdre showed me to a chair at the kitchen table and hurried about the task of preparing one slice of balloon bread, toasted lightly in an ancient toaster and spread with a niggardly film of butter and a chintzy glaze of home-made jam. I noticed that she pulled the bread out of th
e toaster barehanded, as if her hands were made of asbestos. Without even whacking the piece in half, she stuck it in front of me. “Tea?” she inquired.

  “Tea would be marvelous,” I replied. I dawdled, lifting the toast to my lips and taking the tiniest of bites from one corner.

  Deirdre turned on the fire underneath a pan of water. When it had heated, she grabbed the metal handle and poured a half-cup into a mug, stuck a cheap tea-bag in it, lifted it by the sides of the mug, and set it in front of me. Then she sat down across from me and stared. I noticed that her eyes were the same cool shade of gray as her brother’s, but instead of self-absorption I saw unveiled cunning.

  Trying to engage her in conversation that might lead to information, I said, “You have good, honest farmwoman’s hands.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You don’t seem to need a hot-pad to handle hot things.”

  She made a derisive grunt. “I have a condition called peripheral neuropathy. That means I can no longer feel my hands or feet.” She smiled, as if taking a bizarre pleasure in talking about it. “It’s like death visiting you a little bit at a time,” she said. “Gradually, the tips of you die, each nerve going out with a bolt of pain, but all portending your overall death. The numbness is just an early visit.”

  We stared at each other a moment. Her words had been more an assault than an opening-up. I said, “Has your mother been ill long? It can be such a trial.”

  Deirdre shook her head with robust bitterness. “I’m out here all alone with her.” Casting me a sidelong glance, she added, “She won’t go to the hospital. Why do that when I’m here to wait on her hand and foot? Insists on going to that old cadaver of a doctor. He should have retired years ago.”