In a Dark Season

by Vicki Lane

  A feeling of optimism filled her and she gave a friendly wave to the grizzled old man who was just emerging from a derelict brick building at the side of the road. He jerked his head back in response and continued on with setting out dishes of food for the cats that were pouring out of their hiding places in several junk cars to cluster around his rubber boots. As she passed, Elizabeth smiled to see one particularly bold calico leap onto the man’s shoulder as he leaned down to place a dish on the cracked pavement.

  Smoke was rising from the chimney of Nola’s little stone cottage and a generic-looking car—white, with rental plates—was pulled up beside the back porch. Elizabeth made her careful way along the stepping-stones, wet with melted snow, to the front porch. Just as she raised her hand to knock, the door flew open.

  Divested of her heavy jacket, the young woman Elizabeth had last seen climbing into the ambulance with Nola Barrett was painfully thin. Tight black jeans and an acid green sweater revealed an almost skeletal body while lank hennaed hair pulled back in a short ponytail accentuated the bony planes of the woman’s pallid face. At the end of her sharp, reddened nose quivered a small, clear bead of moisture. Swiping a crumpled tissue at the emerging drop, the young woman motioned Elizabeth in with a jerk of her head.

  “Ms. Goodweather? Tracy Barrett. Come on in; it’s freezing out there. Excuse the mess. We’re trying to decide what to do with all this junk.” She nodded toward the many cardboard boxes piled high with books. From the back of the house came the sound of heavy furniture scraping across the floor.

  Fighting back a feeling of intense dislike for this person who was acting so quickly to disassemble what was left of Nola Barrett, Elizabeth drew a deep breath.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Tracy. What can you tell me about Nola? Mr…. or I guess it’s Reverend Morton called and said that she was being moved to—”

  “The Layton Facility. Just outside Ransom.” The thin young woman’s face was impassive as she moved toward a stack of quilts resting on the table where Nola Barrett’s laptop had been.

  “I was wondering…Reverend Morton told me that Nola’s not badly hurt, but what about her mental state? How do the doctors explain—”

  “The old lady’s completely bugshit. Out to lunch and not likely to come back.” The speaker loomed in the kitchen door, his massive shoulders almost as wide as the opening. “Trace, what d’you want me to do with all that shit in the cabinets?”

  “Just leave it till I can look at it, Stone.” A look of annoyance flashed across the thin face and was replaced by a carefully calibrated smile. “My boyfriend’s helping me with the heavy stuff. Stone, this is the lady who knows about quilts—Aunt Nola’s friend Ms. Goodweather.”

  Stone? Can that be his real name? Like Rocky? Good grief, this is one big boy! Elizabeth tried not to stare at the young man who seemed be built along the lines of a midsized truck.

  “Nice to meet you—” she began, but Stone merely glanced at her and turned back toward the kitchen with a bob of his shaven head and an inarticulate mumble that might have been an acknowledgment of her greeting. The sound of heavy objects being scraped across the floor resumed.

  “We’re trying to get this place cleared out so it can be sold or rented. And we’ve got to get back to Raleigh by Thursday night, so we don’t have much time.” Tracy reached for the top quilt—a green and red pattern appliquéd on a white background. “Is this one worth anything?”

  The young woman’s impatience was obvious, as was her lack of interest in the quilts. I could tell her anything—offer her a hundred dollars for the lot of them and she’d probably jump at it, Elizabeth thought, sorely tempted by the beautiful heirlooms that Nola had preserved so lovingly. But, as Nixon said, that would be wrong. Oh hell.

  “Well, you need to understand I’m not an expert. But I do know a little about old quilts. This one’s a traditional Pomegranate pattern, probably from the 1880s, give or take twenty years. The condition is good…some fading in the green fabrics—what they call fugitive dyes and a little yellowing of the unbleached muslin. But—”

  “If I took it to a flea market, what kind of price should I put on it? That’s all I need to know.”

  Shocked at the suggestion, Elizabeth was quick to insist, “Oh, no, don’t take it to a flea market. You wouldn’t get near what it’s worth. A few years ago I saw a similar one priced over a thousand dollars in a fancy antique shop in Asheville. But I have no idea what a dealer would pay you—maybe half that. And fashions change—quilts may not be as collectible now as they were.”

  Elizabeth bent down to study the red appliquéd circles and the faded green crescents that had been delicately stitched onto a creamy white background. With a careful finger she traced the tiny quilting stitches that crisscrossed the fabric.

  “Such a lot of work. You know, your aunt—have I got that right?—called this one the Lyda quilt.” My great-grandmother made that one, Nola had said. “But you probably know that—it being your family too.”

  The young woman, evidently aware of the unspoken challenge in Elizabeth’s words, fixed her with a cool gray stare. “Nola was my mother’s sister—but we haven’t been close in a long time. If she ever showed me these quilts, I’ve forgotten.”

  The icy gaze, Nola Barrett’s eyes looking out of a different, younger face, was unsettling. Still, Elizabeth persisted. “Are you sure you want to part with family heirlooms like these? They’re undoubtedly worth something to a quilt collector but—”

  The younger woman brushed Elizabeth’s words aside and unfolded a second quilt. “I’m not sentimental about family stuff anymore. Heirlooms or not, if they’re worth a buck or two, they’re going to be sold. Do you have any idea how much long-term care for that crazy old woman is likely to cost? If only she could have managed to find the old man’s will.”

  Elizabeth stood in the quiet of her empty house. Behind the leafless trees at the far left of the eastern horizon, the full moon was rising with slow majesty, its great disc looming startlingly large and almost transparent against the rose and lavender of the evening sky.

  She had opened her mouth to call Phillip to come look at the moon; then she remembered—Phillip, as was his custom on weeknights, was at his house in Weaverville. Closer to AB Tech, he had explained, and in winter there’s less chance I’ll have trouble with snow on the roads.

  This was undoubtedly true, but Elizabeth suspected that the chief reason Phillip maintained the little rented bungalow was because some months ago she had declined his proposal of marriage. Their growing closeness had suffered briefly from her refusal.

  You know I love you, Phillip, she had said. Will a few words and a license make any difference to the way we feel about each other?

  He had not pressed the issue but had withdrawn briefly, no longer routinely spending weekends and holidays with her. Gradually, however, and much to her relief, the part-time relationship had resumed. Thank god, he didn’t just bow out altogether. I love him and want him in my life—I just don’t see why we need to be married. But I wish he were here to see this moonrise.

  She stood staring out the window, watching the huge pale circle float above the treetops. As the sky darkened, the shadowy globe seemed to shrink and solidify till it was the familiar yellow moon, soaring high above the dark mountain range.

  A feeling of vast loneliness swamped her—Molly and Ursa were gone, tempted, no doubt, by the moonlight to prowl the woods till dawn, and James was fast asleep on his wintertime bed in a snug corner of her closet.

  And Ben, who for the past few years had been in and out of her house several times a day, was now preoccupied with his new love. And that’s as it should be. Amanda’s ideal for him and they’re turning his cabin into a real home. Briefly she thought of calling over to invite the pair to share her dinner, then remembered: it’s the full moon, you idiot, this is the night they were going for that special raft trip with the crew from River Runners—wet suits and all. And Phillip’s in Weaverville. Well, he
ll.

  As she scrambled a few eggs for a quick supper, her mind turned restlessly to Nola Barrett. She must have been lonely too, living alone in that little cottage for all these years, with just her books for company.

  “So, what was the niece like? And what did you find out about your friend’s condition?”

  Elizabeth was stretched out on the sofa, Nola Barrett’s laptop resting on a pillow in front of her, the telephone cradled to her ear. The feeling of desolation brought on by the rising moon had dissipated with her supper and vanished entirely when Phillip called. Even if he insists on staying in Weaverville during the week, at least we can talk every night.

  She became aware that Phillip was repeating his question and hurried to answer him. “Apparently there’s been no change in Nola’s mental condition. She’s conscious but not…I guess lucid’s the word I want. Tracy—that’s the niece—said that Nola was just babbling most of the time, didn’t know where she was or what had happened. Anyway, I’m going to go see her on Wednesday. Tracy said that the facility requested that Nola be given a few days to, quote, ‘settle in’ before anyone other than family visited.”

  She sighed unhappily and Phillip’s warm, reassuring voice filled her ear. “Lizabeth, maybe your friend will improve…they’re probably running tests and looking for some organic cause for this—”

  “I don’t know, Phillip. The niece is in such a hurry. She says the doctor can’t explain the cause of Nola’s sudden dementia, if that’s what it is, and doesn’t think there’s likely to be any improvement. Tracy and her boyfriend are hell-bent on getting Nola’s stuff packed up so that the cottage can be rented or sold.”

  “Seems like they could wait a while.”

  “Which is what I hinted, but evidently they’re looking at long-term care for Nola and they need the money now. They’re in such a rush that I’m afraid they’re tossing out important stuff.”

  Elizabeth allowed herself a grim smile as she ran her hands over the lid of the little laptop. She had asked Tracy what she planned to do with Nola’s notes and partially completed novel.

  “Well, it’s not going to get written now, is it?” had been the brusque response. “Stone looked at that laptop of hers and he says it’s worthless—completely outdated. I told him to take it across to the garbage bins along with that stack of paper she’d scribbled on.”

  Elizabeth patted the computer again and let her thumb riffle the sheaf of paper beside it, a mass of pages covered with notes in Nola Barrett’s precise, minuscule script.

  “I did manage to salvage a few important things. I offered to buy some of the books, mainly ones about the county, and I convinced Tracy to let me bring the quilts here so that I could go over them and see if they need mending.” And when I picked up the pile of quilts and saw Nola’s laptop and her notes were underneath them…

  There had been a small struggle with her conscience, but Elizabeth’s determination to hold on to something of her friend had won. She had asked for a box or garbage bag to put the stack of quilts into, and when Tracy went to the kitchen in search of something suitable, Elizabeth had hastily slipped the laptop and notes between the folds of one of the quilts. They were going to toss it anyway, she argued, overcoming the small still voice that nagged in vain. And I was honest about the quilts.

  Chapter 6

  In Hell

  Wednesday, December 6

  Noise. There was always noise. Rattle, clang, clank, loud meaningless voices, shrill mirthless laughter, hoarse whispers. And always the hopeless sound of someone crying. There was no night—night with its blessed concealing darkness and the silence that she had once wrapped herself in like a familiar garment. There was always light. There was always noise. The overheated air smothered her and the dark odor of despair clung to everything.

  I am in hell, thought Nola Barrett. I am in hell for my sins.

  Hands plucked at her, pulling at her nightgown. Metal rings slid across a rod. “Nola honey, company’s coming today. You want to be a clean and pretty young lady, now don’t you? We got to wash you up good.”

  The thin cotton nightgown was twitched away and there was a spatter of liquid and a sloshing sound. The moonlike face of the attendant grimaced at her and wheezed a smoky laugh. “Like I always say, first we wash down as far as possible…”

  A rough cloth, cold and wet, scrubbed at her face, her breasts, her belly. She tried to protest but her tongue, thick with the bewitchment of hell, turned the words into a garble of meaningless sound.

  “And then we wash up as far as possible.”

  Nola flapped futile hands at the invasive washcloth that swabbed her feet, then worked its way up her trembling and jerking legs.

  “And then… we wash possible!” The braying voice was loud in her ears and the foul breath of her tormentor made her gag as the relentless hands thrust the wet rag into her most private parts.

  They had tied her into the wheelchair, for her own good, they said, and set her in front of a television where mindless people did mindless things. The colors whirled and blurred as her eyes filled with tears.

  I should have died…I wanted to die…I deserved to die…

  Abandoning the hopeless litany of guilt, Nola Barrett concentrated on turning her head to look at the door. The bewitchment of her tongue seemed to extend to the rest of her body: she could think an action, but movement, it seemed, was restricted to creaking, shaking slow-motion. As her eyes passed from the flickering screen, over the built-in cupboards and sink, past the open door of the bathroom and so to the second bed with its huddled and silent occupant, there was time to study it all.

  Even without her glasses—“You won’t be needing these, now will you, sweetheart?”—even though shapes blurred and quivered, the limits of her world were clear.

  O there’s none; no no no there’s none

  Be beginning to despair, to despair,

  Despair, despair, despair, despair.

  Nola Barrett’s head slumped forward as the leaden echo of the poem learned in her youth filled her consciousness, drowning out the chatter of the television and the endless, eternal noise of the nursing home.

  “No one’s there—that Tracy and what’s-his-name left a little while ago, hauling off a load of Nola’s things. I heard them saying they’d have to make one more trip at least.”

  Elizabeth turned from Nola Barrett’s front door to see a pleasant-looking woman pulling a wheeled bin toward the garbage collection site just a few steps across the road. Sharp blue eyes under a red knit hat studied Elizabeth. “You must be the new friend Nola told me about. I’ve seen your car here quite a few times. It was here Monday, so I guess you know what happened. Were you looking for that niece of hers?”

  “Yes, I was.” Elizabeth left the porch and started back toward her car. “I was going to visit Nola at the Layton Facility, and I thought I’d see if there was anything I could take to her. That white car was still parked behind the house, so I thought…”

  The other woman abandoned her garbage bin on the side of the road and came across, smiling and obviously ready to chat.

  “Those two borrowed a truck from somewhere. If they were taking Nola’s things in to one of the secondhand places in Asheville, they won’t be back for several hours—probably eat lunch in there. It’ll be two…say two-thirty before they’re back.”

  The gray-haired woman stuck out a gloved hand. “I’m Lee Palatt. That’s my place over there.” She nodded toward a house just beyond Nola’s cottage. A glistening white picket fence with an arched gateway surrounded a white frame house set in a yard that, even in bleak December, was obviously the creation of a dedicated gardener.

  “It’s good to meet you, Lee. I’m Elizabeth Goodweather. I live—”

  “I know; you have that herb farm on Ridley Branch. Nola told me about you and back in the spring I read that write-up in the paper about you and your wreaths. I kept thinking I’d try to get over and look at your herb gardens, but I just moved here last year a
nd all my energy’s gone into fixing up the house and the yard.”

  Lee cocked her head to one side and her brow wrinkled. “Now, I wonder…what do you think about all this carrying on? I would have said that Nola was as sane and well adjusted as they come—this whole thing is just unbelievable. Of course, even though we’re neighbors, I haven’t seen much of Nola recently.”

  She flashed an engaging grin and brushed at her blue fleece jacket. A sprinkling of short pale hairs clung to the fabric, resisting her attempts to dislodge them. “I’m a cat person, as you might guess—four of ’em. And Nola’s one of those folks who’s funny about cats—cat phobia or something. She’s never set foot in my house because of the kitties. And that house of hers is so tiny that I haven’t felt right dropping in since her niece arrived.”

  “Nola seemed just fine when I last saw her.” Elizabeth looked toward the little stone cottage, remembering the cozy living room piled with books and the quick wit and acute perceptions of the woman who had lived there. “But…something must have happened—”

  Her new acquaintance gave a disgusted snort. “Phooey! I don’t believe Nola would try to kill herself! That Tracy tried to tell me that Nola jumped from the roof of the old house down by the river. Do you believe that story?”

  A nice woman, Elizabeth thought as she drove away, if a bit nosy. In the rearview mirror, she could see Nola’s neighbor maneuvering the wheeled bin through her gate. Several cats twined about her legs, complicating the task.