Across the room, Lizette and Ruby Mae were dancing with each other, giggling and carrying on the way girls did. Miz Christy was helping some of the littlest children hang up drawings they’d made for decorations. Miss Ida, the grouchy one with the sharp tongue, was rushing about with a feather duster.
“Want to dance, Wraight?” Lizette called as she whirled past, nearly knocking over a hat rack. She had a scarf around her neck. It flowed behind her, just like a flag in the wind. It was the color of her eyes, as dark and big as night itself.
He wanted to say something just right, when she whirled past again, but all he could think of was, “I can’t dance.”
He wished so badly that he still had his dulcimer. He’d played it for her once, under a tree during recess. He’d sung a ballad his ma had taught him, one with all the fancy words about love and such that he didn’t know how to say himself. When he was singing or playing his music, everything made sense. He felt smart, like his feelings got shaped into notes. He couldn’t spell, couldn’t add, but he could make the four strings of his dulcimer sing as sweet as the first spring bluebird. And he wasn’t exactly sure, but it had seemed to him that when he played, Lizette had looked at him in a different way. His heart got all stirred up just remembering it.
Of course, he didn’t have his dulcimer, not anymore. His pa had smashed it good one night when the moonshine had gotten the better of him. Wraight could still remember that night like it had just happened. It made him knot up inside, just thinking about it. His pa had been mad at him because he hadn’t chopped enough wood to keep the fire going.
“You ain’t got a lick of sense in you, boy,” Pa’d screamed, and then he’d grabbed the dulcimer right out of Wraight’s hands. He’d held it high up in the air, waving it back and forth. “I’ll get me some firewood right quick,” he’d said, his voice all slow and dark with the moonshine.
Then, while Wraight had watched in horror, he’d slammed the little dulcimer against the table. It had broken into a hundred pieces. Splinters of wood covered the floor. It was like watching a living thing die, right before your eyes.
Wraight had tossed the pieces of wood into the fireplace for kindling. He hadn’t cried. Hadn’t said a word. There wasn’t any point in crying.
He’d kept the strings, though. Why, he didn’t know. He just couldn’t let them go.
He gazed over at the new piano. Miz Christy had been mighty proud about getting it for the mission. She’d said the piano was full of wires inside, long ones. When you pushed on one of the little white or black boxes in a long row—she’d called them keys—a sound happened.
It would pleasure him something fierce to be able to play that big instrument. If he could get a sound out of it, even learn a song or two, maybe then Lizette would listen. Maybe she’d remember how he’d sung and played for her before.
He made his way over to the piano bench. “What are you up to, Wraight Holt?” Lundy called.
Wraight cringed. Lundy was like a dark shadow he could never get rid of. Always causing trouble, always looking to make life harder than it already was. Lundy hated the other students, hated the school, hated Miz Christy. Come to think of it, there wasn’t much Lundy Taylor did seem to like. How many times had Wraight heard Lundy talk about getting rid of the school, and Miz Christy with it?
But the truth was sometimes Wraight felt that way too.
“I’m just lookin’, is all,” Wraight called back to Lundy. “Let me be.”
He eased onto the bench. It was slippery. He let his fingers slide over the white keys. They were smooth too. Miz Christy had said they were made of ivory, from elephants’ tusks, but he hardly saw how that was possible. She’d said tusks were sharp, like knives. And these keys were as smooth and cool as ice.
Gently he pressed down on a key. Nothing happened. No sound. Nothing like the sweet, sad twang of a dulcimer string.
He pressed again. This time a sound did come—a low, smooth, easy sound that made him start. It came from deep in the belly of the piano, far from his touch. How could that be?
He moved his hand far up the keys. Again he pushed. This time the sound was sweet and high like a raindrop hitting a pool of water. He blinked. It was a plain and simple miracle, near as he could figure.
“Miss Ida,” Lundy’s taunting voice met his ears. “Wraight Holt is playing on that there music maker.”
Miss Ida bustled over and slapped at Wraight’s hand. “Get away from there,” she said. “That’s for people who know how to play. People who’ve had lessons, which I venture to say you have not.”
She slammed the black lid and the magic keys disappeared from view as if they’d never been there. Behind him, Wraight heard Lundy’s snarling laugh. Wraight glanced across the room. Lizette was standing with John. She was watching Wraight, and the look in her eyes was nothing like the look he remembered from that day under the tree.
He knew all too well what that look was. Her eyes said she felt sorry for him.
1
“Isn’t this the perfect evening for a party?” Christy said to David as they walked along the porch of the mission house.
It was late Saturday afternoon, and the open house was already underway. The sun had just begun to sink. Its brilliant red rays seemed to set the mission house windows on fire. The day had been surprisingly warm for March. Patches of snow still remained, but much of it had melted, turning the yard to mud. Nevertheless, families were already gathering in the yard, laughing and hugging and gossiping.
“Jeb Spencer’s already got his dulcimer going,” David said. “I’m going to have to round up my ukulele so we can get a duet started.”
“The yard’s not exactly the best place for dancing,” Christy pointed out. “I’d planned on the party taking place inside.” She grinned. “Of course, I’m sure Miss Ida would be very relieved if everybody stayed out here.”
“The temperature will drop soon enough,” David said. “Then everyone will head inside.” He paused to gaze at her, just long enough that Christy felt a blush creep up her neck. “By the way,” David said, “have I mentioned how very nice you look tonight?”
Christy adjusted the blue bow in her hair. “You look pretty nice yourself,” she said shyly just as Ruby Mae came out the front door.
David cleared his throat. “Well, I guess I should go find my ukulele,” he said. He nudged Christy with his elbow. “Think later on we could talk you into playing a tune or two on the piano?”
“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea, Preacher,” Ruby Mae said. “Miz Christy was a-practicin’ this afternoon. Scraped my eardrums somethin’ fierce.”
Christy laughed. “I am a little rusty.”
“After all the work it took getting that piano inside the mission house, I can’t bear to think it’s going to go to waste,” David said. “We’d better find somebody around here who can play it.”
While David went to find his ukulele, Ruby Mae and Christy watched the party from the porch. Soon Fairlight joined them. She was wearing a lavender crocus in her hair. Little Guy dozed peacefully in her arms, his head on her shoulder.
“Listen to this,” she said to Christy. “F-a-i-r-l-i-g-h-t.”
“Fairlight, that’s wonderful!” Christy exclaimed. “You really are a quick student.”
“I can already spell all the names in the family. ’Cept I keep forgettin’ to put that there h in ‘John.’ ”
“Where is John, anyway?” Christy asked. “I haven’t seen him.”
“Over yonder,” Ruby Mae said. She pointed toward the schoolhouse. “Moonin’ over Lizette, like always.”
“Poor John,” Fairlight said. “I fear he’s pinin’ for her bad.”
“Crazy thing is,” Ruby Mae said, lowering her voice, “Bessie Coburn’s had her eye on John ever since school started. Told me every time he says howdy to her she plumb near walks on air the rest of the day.”
“Are you sure?” Fairlight asked.
“’Course I’m sure. Bessie’s
my best friend, and she told me after I promised never to breathe a word of it to nobody—” Ruby Mae’s eyes went wide. “Confound it all! I’d best be movin’ on, before my mouth gets me into any more trouble.”
Without another word, she dashed off. Fairlight and Christy laughed as they watched her go.
“Looks like David found his ukulele,” Christy said, pointing across the yard.
David and Jeb were sitting next to each other on two overturned crates. As they strummed and sang, more and more people began to clap and dance, wheeling in circles on the muddy grass.
“Jeb loves that dizzifyin’ music,” Fairlight said. “He’ll strum all night long if’n we let him.”
“I have the feeling David will too,” Christy said.
Miss Alice poked her head out the door. “This seems to have turned into an outdoor party,” she said.
“Oh, they’ll be in soon enough, Miz Alice,” Fairlight said. “Once the dark falls and the air starts a-chillin’.”
A tiny, bent woman passed by the porch. She was leaning on a wooden walking stick for support. She paused, tapping her stick on the porch railing to get Christy’s attention.
“Granny O’Teale,” Christy exclaimed. Not too long ago, Granny would never have dared set foot at the mission. Christy was very pleased to see her here tonight.
“For a city gal,” Granny said, “you give a mighty fine jollification.”
“Thank you, Granny,” Christy said. “I’m awfully glad you came.”
“There’s food and such a-comin’, right?”
“Oh, yes. Lots of it.”
“Then I reckon I’m glad I came too.”
Christy watched Granny hobble off. “Wasn’t this a wonderful idea, Miss Alice?” Christy asked.
“Yes, it was,” Miss Alice agreed. “A fine idea. By the way, I’ll be back in the kitchen with Miss Ida if you need me.”
Watching the children and adults clapping and dancing, their voices raised in song, Christy felt a warm glow. Cutter Gap might have seen its share of feuds and fighting over the years, but on a night like tonight, with the stars glistening and the music soaring, it seemed as if nothing could go wrong.
“Who’s that over yonder?” Fairlight asked. She pointed to the bottom of the ridge, where four figures had emerged from the trees. They were barely visible in the waning light.
“Looks like Wraight and Zach,” Christy said.
“Lundy and Smith too,” Fairlight said. “Hope they’re not here to make trouble.”
The four boys marched slowly across the yard.
Lizette caught sight of Wraight and waved. “Wraight!” she called out. “I didn’t think you’d come!”
Near the edge of the circle of dancers, Wraight paused to see where the voice was coming from. “Lizette?” he called, peering into the darkening twilight.
“Over here!” Lizette called from the schoolhouse.
Wraight spun around in the direction of her voice. As he turned, he bumped shoulders with one of the dancers and lost his balance. He landed on his hands and knees in a patch of thick mud. Instantly, the music and dancing stopped. Everyone turned to stare at Wraight. After a moment, the whole group broke into gales of laughter.
“That a new dance step, Wraight?” called Bob Allen.
Wraight tried to wipe his hair out of eyes, but he only succeeded in drawing a stripe of mud across his cheek and starting a whole new round of laughter.
“He never were much for dancin’,” said Ruby Mae, giggling so hard she had to wipe tears from her eyes.
Christy could see how embarrassed poor Wraight was. As he struggled to his feet, his legs and hands caked with mud, she ran over to help him.
“Don’t pay any attention to them, Wraight,” she said, taking his arm. “Let’s go on inside. I’ll get you a towel and you can clean up.”
“Don’t need none of your help!” Wraight cried, yanking free of her grasp. His eyes burned. “Get away from me!”
“Really,” Christy said gently, “I’ll get you a towel and you’ll be good as new, I promise. Don’t be embarrassed. By the end of the evening, I’ll bet you almost everybody will have some mud on them.”
“I ain’t embarrassed,” Wraight shot back. He glared at her with such fury that Christy backed away. Without another word, he stomped off toward the mission house.
After a few moments of silence, Jeb and David started playing again. Before long, the dancing was in full swing and Wraight’s fall was forgotten.
But no matter how hard she tried, Christy could not forget the look of anger in his eyes.
Wraight ran into the mission house because it was the only place he could think of where he could hide from the laughter and the stares. He’d looked like a complete fool out there, in front of all of Cutter Gap. Worst of all, he’d looked like a fool in front of Lizette.
He felt the rage inside him like a wild animal clawing to come out. He wanted to hurt something, or maybe even somebody.
He knew it was wrong to feel like this. But he couldn’t seem to help it.
There were noises coming from the kitchen. He heard women’s voices. The parlor was empty. He leaned against the wall, trying to catch his breath. He was covered with mud. It was on the floor, on the wall, anywhere he touched. What a sight he must have made out there in the yard. Was it any wonder they’d all laughed?
It didn’t used to be this way. For as long as Wraight could remember, he’d been the one the other children had looked up to—not the one they laughed at. They’d patted him on the back, shook his hand, tried to be his friend. He could hunt better and shoot better and play the dulcimer better than any of them, and they all knew it.
But ever since the mission school had come around, things had changed. Not a day went by that Miz Christy, with her numbers and her letters and her books, didn’t manage to make him feel like a fool. When he felt like that, the anger boiled in him like a kettle on a fire, so hot it burned inside.
He’d known he shouldn’t have come to the open house tonight. He’d told Lundy a thousand times he didn’t want to. But Lundy had told Wraight he was coming, like it or not. Lundy was hoping to get hold of some moonshine and have a time of it.
Besides, Zach had wanted to come so bad. Their ma and pa weren’t coming, and the only way Zach could come was if Wraight did too. He’d practically begged Wraight. How could he have said no? He would do anything for Zach, and Zach would do anything for him. So that was that. Wraight had agreed to come.
He glanced down at his legs. His feet and hands were covered with mud. He wiped his hands on his shirt, but that just made things worse. He had to get out of here. He’d grab Zach and make him head on home. He wondered—if he went back outside, would the laughter start all over again?
Wraight’s eyes fell on the big, gleaming piano. The top was propped open with some kind of stick. He started for the door, but something held him back, like a hand grabbing hold of his thoughts.
If he went over to that piano, he’d see the insides. See what made it work.
Slowly Wraight approached the piano, as if it were alive. His feet left big footprints of mud. He glanced toward the kitchen. He was safe. No one was coming. Miss Ida, who’d shooed him away yesterday, was nowhere around.
He looked inside the piano and gasped. He saw wires, more than anyone could count, tight and long. He touched one with a muddy finger. So many more strings than his dulcimer!
Wraight stepped over to the bench. Even that was a sight to behold, all shiny and smooth. He sat down, almost without knowing what he was doing.
The little key things were lined up like soldiers. Black were thinner than white. He rested a finger on one, then slowly let it sink down. A soft whisper of a sound, like a dove’s coo, came out of the piano’s insides.
Another key, this one black. He touched it softly, too, not wanting to draw attention. This time the sound was a low grumble, like thunder at the end of a storm.
Something inside him changed. The boili
ng kettle of anger cooled. His guts weren’t all twisted and tight anymore. He could feel the hate dripping away, the way it always did when he played his music.
How many times had he gone to his dulcimer when he’d felt angry? He remembered all those times he and his pa had nearly come to blows. The only thing that would make everything go away was playing and playing till he forgot what it was that had him so riled. He missed that. He hadn’t known how much till just now.
Wraight ran his fingers gently up and down the whole keyboard. It was sweet, how the keys gave way and then popped back up, ready for more. With his eyes closed, he did it again, so softly that only a few notes sounded. When he opened his eyes, he looked down in horror to see that he’d left a long trail of mud on the beautiful white keys.
Just then, the front door opened and Miz Christy came in. The preacher was with her, and John Spencer’s mama, and a whole lot of others too.
“And here’s our new pride and joy,” Miz Christy said gaily. “The mission’s very own grand piano!”
Then Wraight saw her. Lizette. She was standing at the edge of the group, staring at his muddy clothes with wide, shocked eyes.
Wraight gulped. He had to get out of here, and he had to get out fast. He pushed back the bench and leapt up.
“Wraight!” Miz Christy exclaimed. “There you are.” Her eyes dropped to the floor. “Oh, no! Miss Ida’s going to have a fit when she sees these footprints!” She rolled her eyes when she noticed the mud on the piano keys. “Wraight,” she moaned. “Couldn’t you at least have cleaned yourself up first?”
“I—I just wanted to . . .” Wraight muttered.
“I ’spect he thought he could play us all a tune,” somebody said, and the laughter started all over again.
“I could play, if’n I had the chance!” Wraight cried. The blood was rushing to his head. He clenched his hands. His stomach churned.
“Well, before you play us a tune, wash up those hands,” Miz Christy said. She was smiling, but Wraight knew it wasn’t a friendly smile. It was the kind of smile you made when you were laughing on the inside.
The Angry Intruder Page 7
