by Alex Bledsoe
She took his Visa card and ran her fingers over the signature on the back. She sensed only vague things from it, but they made her frown nonetheless. She was right about his temper; it would burst out soon, and affect a lot of people in town. She also saw disturbing flashes of blood, and the ghastly image of a pale hand clawing up from a grave. But mixed in were smiles, strains of music, and the sighs of lovers. She remembered her own omens at sunrise and wondered how this newcomer would figure into them.
Rob quickly filled in the other information, but paused at “emergency contact.” Normally, it would be Anna. Now, he had no idea whom to put down. He left it blank.
As she waited for the card’s authorization, Peggy asked, “Here to trace your family?”
“People keep asking me that. Do I really look that much like a Tufa?”
She waved her hand. “Oh, honey, looks got nothing to do with it. Tufa’s like Cherokee, you can be blond and blue-eyed and still have enough in you to count. It’s just that we get people in here, prowling the cemeteries, looking for ancestors. They take pictures and videos and rubbings and such.”
“Well, not me. I’m a musician.”
She nodded, and then her eyes widened. “Oh, my goodness, you’re Rob from the TV show!”
His cheeks burned. This never got easy. “Yep, that’s me.”
“I am so sorry, I didn’t recognize your name at first. Oh, you poor thing, bless your heart.”
“Thank you. Do you mind if we keep this just between ourselves for now?”
“Of course, whatever you need.” She patted his hand. “But if you want to talk, I promise you, I can listen with the best of them, and I keep secrets like a beehive keeps honey from a bear.”
“Thank you,” he repeated.
She returned his credit card, but when he reached for it, she said, “Would you mind if I had a look at your palm?”
“Are you going to tell my future?”
“Oh, no, nothing so silly. No one can predict the future. Every blink of every eye changes it. I can just sometimes tell what your next few days might be like.”
“Well … I suppose.” He put his card back in his wallet, then let her hold his hand, palm up.
Most of her evaluation was empirical. Rob’s hand was small, but by its weight, she knew the muscles were built up the way only prolonged musical practice would develop them. His nails were short and neat. One knuckle felt larger than normal, probably a healed injury from the temper she’d already sensed. But then came observations and impressions that had no material source, but that she trusted as much as any physical sign. After a moment, she released his hand and nodded.
“Did I pass?” he asked, amused despite himself.
“Of course. It looked to me like your time here will do you a world of good. Everything will be different when you leave.”
“That’s a tall order.”
She patted his hand. “You just wait and see. But I’ve got to warn you: Not everyone you meet will be as honest as me.”
“I’ve worked with TV producers. I’m ready for anything.”
He followed Peggy across the lobby. He stopped at a framed newspaper clipping on the wall that showed a dark-haired young woman in an army uniform gazing sternly into the camera. He recognized her at once. “Bronwyn Hyatt is from here?”
“Oh, yes. She grew up here. She lives out at her family’s farm.”
“Huh. Imagine that.” He remembered the media circus surrounding her rescue in Iraq and her return to the States in the spring, and the way that she completely dropped out of the public consciousness since. Maybe he should look her up and ask her how she did that.
* * *
Upstairs, Peggy unlocked room 17B with a simple key, not one of those ID cards used in chain motels. Then she stepped aside so he could enter.
The room brought him up short. Lace edged everything, from the writing desk to the telephone receiver. Little painted animals in overalls and straw hats ran along the baseboard, and the bed sported an enormous canopy and a huge, thick mattress. When Rob tossed his guitar on the bed, it bounced a foot into the air.
“That looks comfortable,” he observed.
“We don’t get many single young men coming through,” she said. “Usually couples.”
“I bet they appreciate that.”
She handed him the key. “I hope you enjoy your stay with us and manage to get some rest. There’s a café menu on your desk. Local calls are free, although Lord knows who you’d call around here. But you’ve probably got one of those fancy picture-taking cell phones anyway.” As she went out, she added cheerily, “If you need anything, just holler. I’m usually in the office behind the desk during the day, and my husband and I live out back.”
“Thanks. I should be fine for tonight.” As she turned away, he added, “Did you know you have wild emus around here?”
“Yes,” she said with disgust. “They used to belong to old Sim Denham. He bought a whole gaggle of the nasty things. Thought he’d make a fortune with them. Then the bottom dropped out of the market and he just let ’em go. Now the darn things are everywhere.”
“I nearly ran over one today. Are they dangerous?”
“No, but they give me the whim-whams the way they just stare at you.” She shivered. “Well, if you need anything, you just let me know.”
Rob closed the door after her, and noticed an odd wooden device mounted to it. It looked like the neckless body of a tiny mandolin or guitar, with four strings stretched across the hole. Small wooden balls hung so that they’d strike these strings whenever the door closed. It made a soft, comforting sound.
He cleared the complimentary stationery and postcards from the desk and placed his laptop on it. As he waited for it to find the network, he took in more details, like the small fireplace in the corner and the lack of a television. On the wall over the desk hung a framed cross-stitched quote attributed to William Blake:
GREAT THINGS ARE DONE WHEN MEN AND MOUNTAINS MEET.
It was stuffy in the room, so he opened the window. His view looked out at the woods, which grew thick on the slope of a rising hillside, giving him only a limited view of the sky. A small piece of irregular blue glass lay discarded on the sill. He tossed it in the trash can by the desk, then sat down to check his e-mail.
He was startled to see, not his Gmail account, but the Tufa Mysteries Web site. He forgot he’d made it his home page just before he left Kansas. The splash page featured the classic vintage picture of these enigmatic people, the one in every book, article, or blog. It was black-and-white, scratched and faded with age, but sharp with the detail those old huge cameras captured. Three women held their babies and stood grim-faced before a rough-edged mountain cabin. In front of them, three men sat in straight-backed chairs; they clutched a rifle, a guitar, and a windup phonograph, respectively. They looked like European Gypsies: dark skin, straight black hair and eyes haunted by mistrust. Yet the caption read, “Gorvens family, Cloud County, TN, 1898.”
This picture—the original was held in the Museum of Appalachia archives—was the touchstone for anyone interested in the Tufa mystery. Rob had seen the same photo in many other books, often with conflicting information about its origin. About the only thing the different sources agreed on was the family’s surname, Gorvens, and that the clan had vanished into the mountains shortly after they’d been convinced to sit for the photo, never to be seen again by the outside world.
The guitar in the photo had first caught his attention as he surfed Web sites on music history late one sleepless night. Most sources insisted guitars weren’t generally used by the mountain folk until after 1910, yet here was one, in a blatantly musical context, at least twenty years earlier. The picture tangentially confirmed part of the sequined man’s story, enough to convince Rob he should make the pilgrimage.
After reading about the Tufa into the wee hours, the idea that he might just throw things in a car and head south struck him as he stared at the ceiling. Why the hell not?
He had money, and time. If the tale of heart-healing magical music turned out to be bullshit, which Rob knew had to be the case, he’d at least get a change of scenery, which God knew he needed. And if it were true …
He glanced at his reflection in a small mirror across the room and compared it to the faces in the photograph. There was a general resemblance, but these Gorvens had something in their eyes entirely missing from Rob’s. It was too vague and insubstantial for him to name, but its reality was unmistakable, like seeing a shadow but not the thing casting it.
He logged on to Facebook and updated his status. This was his personal page, with fewer than two hundred friends. His “Like” page had more than twenty-five million. He never even looked at it now; twenty-five million messages of sympathy and condolences just left him numb.
Arrived in Needsville today, he typed.
My car broke down, but one of the locals helped me out. Here’s a quote from my official Tennessee guidebook that really captures the feel of the place: “Nestled in the northeast corner of the state, deep in the Smoky Mountains, the area’s rugged landscape features many high ridges and narrow valleys that remain mostly untouched by the modern world.” And I tell you, it’s the truth. It’s like entering another world, similar to ours but with small, subtle surprises. Like this.
Then he posted the photo of the emu.
He closed the computer and took out his guitar. Seated on the edge of the bed, he softly played one of the tunes he’d written after passing through Erwin, a town noted for a bizarre incident in which a killer circus elephant was hanged with a railroad crane. It was his latest attempt at a true folkish story-song, and although it was awful (he rhymed “elephant” with “the hell it can’t”), he understood that it was a step on the road to competence.
But, as with everything he wrote these days, that song morphed into another, one of many he’d written about Anna. He sang softly, feeling the rhythm of the words link inextricably with the melody.
All the screaming girls
Said they love me
All the screaming girls
Said they want me
All the screaming girls
Fade into the dark
And I’m the one screaming
For you.
He yawned, and realized he was thoroughly exhausted even though it was barely lunchtime. He’d left the Cookville motel before dawn, and now could not keep his eyes open. He leaned back on the bed, intending to just shut his eyes for an instant, and didn’t even put his guitar away. He was asleep in moments.
* * *
Peggy’s husband, Marshall, came in from the back carrying a box of disposable coffee filters. “You ain’t never gonna guess who’s upstairs right now,” his wife said.
He put down the box on the front desk and looked at her. “That’s likely.”
“Well, go ahead, guess.”
“You said I ain’t never gonna be able to.”
“That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try.”
“I don’t know. Kevin Sorbo.”
“Kevin Sorbo? Where’d that come from?”
“Can you just tell me? I have a bunch of stuff to unload.”
“Rob Quillen.”
“You’re right, I never would’ve guessed that. Who’s Rob Quillen?”
“That poor boy from So You Think You Can Sing? His girlfriend was flying out to surprise him at the final show, and her plane crashed?”
“Oh, yeah. There’s some tough luck for you. Why is he here?”
“I don’t know. Remember how we all thought he looked like one of us? Well, he ain’t got a drop of Tufa in him, I can tell that for sure. But he does have the look.”
“That could be trouble. Not everyone can tell the difference.”
“Oh, he’s harmless. He probably just wants to get away from all the publicity, like Bronwyn. Can you blame him?”
“Reckon not. He picked the right place to do it.”
Marshall carried the box into the kitchen. Peggy tapped her finger on the desk. Marshall had reiterated something she’d thought earlier: Not every Tufa, even some of the true bloods, could tell if someone else was one of them. If a person had the look, like Rob, then he could stumble into things he was never meant to know.
She picked up the phone and dialed Bliss Overbay, then hung up before it rang. Bliss was fine for most things, but she was merely the regent, not the leader. For something like this, Peggy needed someone with a direct line to the night winds.
She dialed again. A moment later she said, “Leshell? May I please speak to Mandalay? Oh, that’s right, school did start last week. Well, could you tell her to call Peggy Goins when she gets home? Thanks.”
4
After lunchtime, Doyle went into the convenience store beside the garage. His father sat on a stool at the register, chin in his hand, elbow on the counter. He was snoring. Behind him, Gretchen Wilson reclined suggestively in a poster thumbtacked to the wall.
Doyle picked up the phone, dialed the bank, and asked Bella Mae for Berklee’s extension. “Thanks for calling the Bank of Needsville,” his wife said when she picked up, “where interest rates are—”
He interrupted the mandatory spiel. “It’s me.”
“Hi.” There was no feeling of any sort in the word.
“Met an interesting fella today. Guitar player from Kansas, staying down at Peggy Goins’s motel. Thought I might take him down to hear Rockhouse and the boys tonight.”
“Sure, go ahead.”
He had to lick his suddenly dry lips before speaking again. “Thought you might want to come along.”
There was a long pause. Doyle heard the noise of the pneumatic tubes at the bank’s drive-through window, and he knew exactly what his wife was thinking: He might be there. Finally Berklee said in a small voice, “Okay. That’d be nice.”
He felt a tingle in his chest, but wasn’t sure if it was relief or apprehension. “’Kay. See you at home, then.”
“’Kay. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
He hung up. Gretchen’s slightly stoned, slightly horny expression hadn’t changed. He turned so he wouldn’t have to look at her, and watched through the connecting door as a squirrel poked its head into the garage, sniffed the fume-laden air, and scampered away. It was a nice symbol for how he felt whenever he approached Berklee these days. Something inside her was dying, decaying, and she tried to cover the stench with alcohol and bluster. Unlike the squirrel, though, he couldn’t wrinkle his nose and just scurry away. He loved her.
* * *
Doyle parked his truck beside Rob’s car in front of the Catamount Corner. The sun had just crept behind the mountains, and darkness would, as always, fall like a thick shroud thrown over everything. Berklee sat beside him, her eyes scanning the street outside the way they always did in town. She looked fantastic: tight jeans, a blouse unbuttoned just enough to display her cleavage, her long hair loose and combed to shiny perfection. And, as some sort of concession to the evening, she’d consumed only three beers during the time she spent getting dressed. He knew if he mentioned it, she’d mock him and turn it into an argument, so he simply filed it away. These scraps of effort, meager as they were, made him recall the girl he loved, and kept the spark inside him alive.
Peggy Goins glanced up at them as they entered, then smiled. “Well, the happy Collinses. And how are the night winds treatin’ the two of you this evening?”
“Fine as always,” Doyle said. Berklee said nothing, her eyes continually drawn to the windows that looked out on Main Street. “We’re here to pick up one of your guests.”
“Must be Mr. Quillen, he’s the only one I’ve got right now,” Peggy said. “I’ll ring his room for you.” She picked up the phone, punched the numbers, and waited for an answer. “You have company, Mr. Quillen. Doyle and Berklee Collins. Okay, I’ll tell them.” She hung up. “He said he’ll be right down.”
Berklee took a seat in one of the padded high-backed chairs, elegantly crosse
d her legs, rested her hands in her lap, and resumed staring out the window.
Peggy took Doyle’s arm. “Come along, then, we’ll go hurry him up.” She pulled him toward the door that led to the stairs.
“But he said—”
“Come along,” she repeated, and cut her eyes at Berklee. Doyle wearily nodded and allowed her to lead him into the stairwell.
Once the door closed behind them and they were halfway between the two floors, Peggy stopped. “She’s getting worse, Doyle.”
“Everybody drinks a little,” he said with a weak shrug.
“I don’t mean the drinking, and you know it. She hasn’t taken her eyes off the street since you got here. I bet she hasn’t let the two of you have marital relations in months.”
“That’s kinda personal, Mrs. Goins,” he said, annoyed. He respected Peggy as both an elder and because of her status in the Needsville community. But some lines no one was allowed to cross.
“You need to cut bait, Doyle,” Peggy said seriously. “There’s nothing you or anyone can do. It’s got its hooks in her, and they won’t pull out. They just work their way in deeper.”
“She don’t drink that much.”
“Stop trying to make this about her drinking,” Peggy said. “I’d drink all the time, too, in her shoes. I can’t believe she’s lasted as long as this. But, son, you have to know where this’ll end up. No matter how much you love her, it’ll never be enough. You should start letting go of her now, before she pulls you down with her.”
“You give everyone such good advice?”
“Doyle Collins, don’t you take that tone with me. I knew you before you could wipe your own behind. Same with Berklee in there. You think it doesn’t break my heart to see her like that? I’m giving you the advantage of my … Oh, what do you call it when you look at something different from everyone else?”
“Perspective?”
“Yes. The advantage of my perspective. I wouldn’t be able to close my eyes at night if I knew I didn’t try.”
