Wisp of a Thing: A Novel of the Tufa (Tufa Novels)

by Alex Bledsoe

  “Same as every morning.”

  She scooted to the edge of the bed. Her hair was matted where she’d sweated out the effects of the alcohol. She stumbled into the bathroom, and he heard her throw up. It wasn’t an epic puke like some mornings, but it was enough to envelop him in sadness. She emerged wrapped in her bathrobe and went into the kitchen.

  He followed, pulling on his shirt. “So how’d you like Rob?”

  “Who?” she said as she poured herself some coffee. She ignored his empty travel cup waiting beside the machine.

  “The guy we took to the Pair-A-Dice.”

  “Oh. He was all right, I guess.” Then her memory grew a bit clearer. “Wait—did he run off with Bliss?”

  “No, we took him home. Alone.”

  “Oh.”

  He gently nudged her aside and filled his cup. “You know, he was a nice guy. Thought we might have him over for dinner tonight. I could grill out, maybe he’d bring his guitar and play for us.”

  “You planning to invite Bliss, too?” she said. Her hangover kept her sarcasm from being too venomous.

  “No, just him.”

  She nodded, careful with her tender head. “Okay. I’ll pick up some stuff after work. Maybe start a casserole or something when I get home.”

  He wondered why she was so accepting of this. Was she just grateful for an excuse to go through the motions of normality? Was it one more way she denied there was any problem?

  He snapped the lid onto his travel cup. “Well … I have to go.”

  “Have a good day,” she said in a small voice, like a little girl playing at being a wife.

  “Do my best,” he assured her.

  * * *

  Peggy Goins stretched toward the sky and yawned. Her feet twisted with the movement and crunched the gravel beneath them. The exhalation from her first cigarette of the morning trickled out of her open mouth like incense from a brazier.

  She finished her sunrise smoke and started to go back inside when she heard the faint sounds of a guitar. She paused, ground her butt into the gravel alongside years of its comrades, then peeked at the porch around the corner of the building.

  Rob sat in one of the front porch rockers, his guitar across his lap, picking so faintly, she could barely hear it. He had an easy touch with the instrument; his fingers slid on the neck with little of that annoying screech some players produced when they changed chords.

  She mainly watched his face, though. She believed a musician’s expression when he played in solitude told you more about him than anything else. Some made exaggerated “stage” faces even when alone, while others looked bored with the tedium of maintaining their skills. Rob’s face, though, mirrored his music. The old perennial tune he played now, trickling softly through the cool air like a brook over its rounded bed-stones, exactly reflected the sad, weary look on his face.

  Oh, listen to my story, I’ll tell you no lies,

  How John Lewis did murder poor little Omie Wise.…

  No one who knew his story could doubt what inspired this choice of song. Tears unexpectedly welled up and she slipped back out of sight, not wanting to be caught spying.

  She wiped the corners of her eyes, then checked her fingertips for mascara. The boy’s tragedy had seemed abstract and distant until this moment. She imagined how she’d feel if Marshall died that way, and the guilt that would come with knowing he was coming to surprise her. They had sat together on the couch, holding hands as they watched Rob, on TV, struggle through George Jones’s “He Stopped Loving Her Today” while the celebrity judges, even that smug English one, openly wept. The obvious choice of song, the fact that it was on TV, and the overall falseness of the show had kept her from feeling anything at the time. Now, though, it came in a rush and threatened to overwhelm her.

  When she emerged behind the motel desk, she was surprised to see another young man on the other side. This one, though, she recognized immediately. “Reverend Chess,” she said.

  Craig Chess, the young Methodist minister from nearby Smithborough, said, “Hey, Ms. Peggy.” Then he saw her red eyes. “Are you all right?”

  “Oh, I’m fine, Reverend.” There were no churches in Cloud County, and never would be as long as the Tufa lived here, but Craig had quietly earned the Tufa’s trust by not proselytizing or evangelizing. He simply lived his beliefs, something the Tufa understood and accepted even if they didn’t share them. “Bronwyn gave you my message, then?”

  “She did.”

  “Well, I sure do appreciate you coming by.”

  “Always glad to help. What can I do for you?”

  “Did you see that young man on the porch?”

  “The one playing guitar? Yeah.”

  “Did you recognize him?”

  “Ms. Peggy, I’ve only lived here a little while—”

  “No, not from here, he’s not one of us.”

  “He’s not? He’s got the look.”

  She leaned close and said quietly, “That’s Rob Quillen.”

  Just as softly, Craig asked, “Who’s Rob Quillen?”

  “That boy from the TV show, So You Think You Can Sing? The one whose girlfriend died flying out to surprise him at the finals. Remember?”

  “Oh, yeah. I read about that, I didn’t watch the show. That’s tragic.”

  “Yes, exactly. And it’s eating that poor boy up, I can see it just as plain as I see you.” She leaned closer and said, softly and urgently, “He was just playing ‘Omie Wise.’”

  Craig’s expression told her he didn’t get the significance.

  Peggy continued, “If he were a Tufa, if he had even a drop of Tufa in him, I’d know what to do to help him, but I don’t. I was hoping you could point me toward something.”

  He smiled sympathetically. Peggy’s genuine desire to help this stranger reminded him why, despite their prickly and evasive attitude toward strangers, he’d continued trying to earn the Tufa’s trust. “Ms. Peggy, I wish I had a simple answer for you. Grief hits everyone differently. All you can do is let him know that you’re here if he needs anything, especially if he wants to talk. That old saying about how grief shared is grief halved is usually true.”

  She nodded. “Thank you, Reverend.”

  Craig looked out the front window, where he could see the back of Rob’s head over the rocking chair. “Tell me, though. If it’s not rude to ask, why is he here if he’s not a Tufa?”

  She shook her head. “He’s looking for something. I don’t know what, yet. I don’t think he truly knows. A little peace away from the fame, maybe. Like when Bronwyn came home from the army. How is she, by the way?”

  “You’d never know she’d been hurt. Even the scars are fading.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  He narrowed his eyes in playful suspicion. “Go ahead and ask. I know you want to.”

  “Why, I don’t know what you mean, Reverend,” Peggy said in exaggerated innocence.

  “I’ll tell you anyway. We’ve gone to the movies a couple of times, and her family’s had me over to dinner. She still hasn’t come to hear me preach, though she keeps promising she will. And that’s as far as it’s gotten.”

  Peggy patted his hand on the counter. “You do still like her, though.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Quite a bit.”

  “You just keep doing what you’re doing, then. And thank you for getting up so early to come talk with me.”

  “I’m going fishing with Bronwyn’s father and brother anyway, so I had to come through town. Always glad to stop and see that pretty smile.”

  She blushed despite herself. “You are a charmer, Reverend Chess. You sure are.”

  * * *

  Rob watched the other man climb into the car with the blue CLERGY sticker in the corner of the windshield. He looked nothing like a Tufa, yet he also seemed thoroughly comfortable in town. He waved as he drove off, and Rob nodded in return.

  The dawn shadow crept down the mountains as the sun rose. The harsh golden light instantly aged
the buildings as it touched them, removing the blemish-hiding dimness that disguised cracked windows and peeling paint. What passed for a quaint village in the dimness became in full daylight an aging, impoverished small town. He played softly out of respect for both other guests and the general morning vibe.

  A few men stood talking outside the convenience store across the street. They glanced his way on occasion, and even at this distance, Rob sensed their suspicion and hostility. They were also all of the same physical type: dark hair, olive skin, and wiry bodies from their hard lives. Classic Tufas, he thought, at least based on what he knew about it. And damn if he didn’t look like one of them.

  Their distinctive appearance was the most obvious aspect of their mystery. Most other Appalachian natives descended from pale, fair-skinned Europeans. The Tufas, though, came from somewhere else. Some sources said their ancestors were mutinous Portuguese sailors marooned on the North Carolina coast by Columbus. Others said they were the result of interbreeding among Native Americans, freed African slaves, and various European ethnic groups. Naturally, a few errant voices called them survivors of Atlantis, Lemuria, or the Lost Tribe of Israel.

  The census practices of earlier times, when people were classified as simply “white” or “other,” blurred their history ever more. Those who could pass as white did so, and denied or buried their Tufa heritage so that it was almost impossible to do significant genealogy. The only thing most experts agreed on was that the Tufas were undeniably there.

  No one knew exactly why they were called “Tufa,” either; the common assumption was that it was based on a corruption of the word “tooth,” and referred to their surprisingly strong dental constitution in an area noted for significant tooth decay. “Grinning like a Tufa” literally meant smiling so wide, it showed all your teeth; more symbolically, it meant hiding your true feelings behind that smile.

  He looked up as the front door opened with the slightest creak. Peggy Goins emerged and placed a coffee cup atop the decorative butter churn beside his chair. The cup rested on a matching saucer, complete with a little lace doily. Printed on the side of the cup were the words, TAKEN BY MISTAKE FROM THE CATAMOUNT CORNER, NEEDSVILLE, TN.

  “You’re up awful early for a musician,” she said.

  “It’s my best thinking time,” Rob said as he sipped the coffee. “Mm, thank you. That hits the spot.” He noticed that her pink fur-lined jacket matched her pink fur-lined boots. “So what is there to do around here first thing in the morning?”

  “Like I said, most of our visitors tend to be here doing genealogical research. Or they spend their time in their rooms, honeymooners and such. Like the two folks opposite you. They checked in while you were out last night, I hope they didn’t bother you. Sometimes young couples can get a little overexcited.”

  Could that have been the source of the cry that had awakened him? No, he was absolutely sure it had come from outside the building, from a distance. “Never even knew they were there.”

  “Good. They left before dawn to go prowling in graveyards and such.”

  He took another sip and said, “Wow, this is great.”

  “I’m glad you like it. I grind it myself every morning. I sing a special song over it.”

  “It’s sure worth it. But let me ask you about something. Do you know of any place nearby where there might be … stone carvings?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Places where people might have carved words into rock. A cave, maybe. Or one of those boulders that stick out of the ground.”

  “Mr. Quillen, I can truly say I’ve never heard tell about anything like that. Do you mean like caveman paintings?”

  “I’m not really sure. Someone told me to look for the stone carvings when I came through here. Maybe on a hill?”

  “They must’ve been pulling your leg. There’s nothing like that in Cloud County.”

  “Is there anyone around here who’s older than you who might know of something?” He realized how it sounded, and could only hope she didn’t take offense.

  “The only one who might know is old Rockhouse Hicks. But good luck getting a civil word out of him.”

  Rob perked up at the name. “Does he play the banjo? And have six fingers on his hands?”

  “That’s him.”

  “I saw him at the Pair-A-Dice last night. He was awesome.”

  “Well, if you’re feeling brave, you can find him down on the post office porch. He likes to watch people coming and going, so he can keep up on all the gossip.”

  “Is his name really Rockhouse?”

  “That’s what we’ve always called him.” She leaned close and lowered her voice. “When we were kids, we called him ‘Rock-head’ behind his back.” She smiled as if this were privileged information. Then she looked wistful. “Course, the kids now, what with cable and the Internet and all, call him Rock A-s-s, pardon my French. The world’s just harsher than it used to be.”

  “Sounds like you don’t care for him.”

  “He’ll say anything to anybody just to get a rise out of ’em. I remember being a little girl, and him making fun of my daddy for being 4-F for the draft. If somebody had cleaned his clock a couple hundred years ago … Well, he’s just a mean old man now, isn’t he?” Without waiting for a reply, she went back inside.

  He chuckled to himself. A couple hundred years ago. He loved the way Southerners used exaggeration to make their points.

  He recalled the way the old man blew him off the night before. This time, Rob would use all his considerable charm, the very thing that got him through the SYTYCS? audition process when more blatantly talented performers were ruthlessly weeded out. At the time, he’d felt no remorse about it, since everyone was entitled to use whatever gifts he or she naturally had. Now he wished that the show truly judged people on talent, instead of just paying that idea lip service. He’d never have made the finals, and Anna would still be alive.

  Peggy reappeared with a cordless phone. “You have a call, Mr. Quillen,” she said. “And please bring the phone back in when you finish, they get left all over the place if I don’t keep an eye on them and then the batteries run down and it’s just…” She finished the sentence with a fluttery hand gesture before going back inside.

  A sticker on the phone sported the same TAKEN BY MISTAKE warning as the coffee cup. “Hello?”

  “Hey,” Doyle Collins said. “Something told me you were an early bird. How’s it going?”

  “Pretty good. So did Berklee make you sleep in the truck?”

  “Nah, we always fight like that. It’s part of our rustic charm. Speaking of which, want to come out to our place for dinner tonight and see some more of it?”

  “Do you use paper plates, or should I just wear a helmet for when she starts throwing the china at you?”

  “I promise we’ll behave. And she’s a heck of a cook, really.”

  “What time?”

  “Seven. Kind of late, but I’ve got to replace a head gasket today and my dad’s helping. That doubles the time it takes, but it makes him feel useful.”

  “Okay. I was going to poke around town today anyway. I’m not in my room right now, so call me on my cell later and give me directions.” He gave Doyle the number.

  When he returned the phone, he considered asking Mrs. Goins about the howling, but decided against it. He’d seen too many movies in which outsiders encountered strange phenomena and were ridiculed by the locals. He put his guitar in its case, picked it up, and headed to the post office in search of Rockhouse Hicks.

  8

  A single pickup passed Rob as he negotiated the uneven sidewalk. It was the same one he’d seen the day before, when he left Doyle’s service station. In the bed, three dark-haired, dark-skinned teenagers stared blankly at him. Two of them, boys around fifteen or sixteen, were so thin, they reminded him of famine victims. The other one, a girl of about twelve, was bigger than both of them combined.

  The brand-new post office was a brick square with br
ight blue mailboxes out front and a flagpole that gleamed silver in the sunrise. A narrow covered porch ran the length of the building. The plaque next to the door stated that it had been built four years earlier on the site of the original post office. Rob assumed the ancient rocking chairs that lined the porch had been inherited from that prior building.

  The customer service window wouldn’t open for another hour, but Rockhouse Hicks already sat in one of the rockers. The chair creaked in the morning silence; his banjo case hung on the back and occasionally tapped the brick wall behind him. At the opposite end of the porch, a shrunken elderly woman sat working on a huge quilt that covered her lap and pooled at her feet.

  “Morning, Mr. Hicks,” Rob said as he stepped onto the porch. He also nodded at the old woman. “Ma’am.”

  She did not look up or respond.

  Rob continued, “Looks like it’s going to be a fine day once it warms up, doesn’t it?”

  Rockhouse glanced up at him. His beard hid any change in his expression. “If it ain’t the talking musician.”

  “Mind if I join you?” Rob said as he took the empty chair next to the old man.

  Hicks’s expression, whatever it was, stayed hidden in the creases of his face. “You one of them people coming around to see if their family tree goes back to the Tufa?”

  “No, sir, I’m just here … Well, I’m looking for a song.”

  He smiled, or scowled, depending on the way the light hit his face. “You can find a song on the radio, or one of them fancy lap computers.”

  “Not this kind of song.”

  “And what kind would that be?”

  Rob suddenly felt self-conscious under Hicks’s withering, unspoken contempt. On a hill, long forgotten, carved in stone, he wanted to say, but chickened out at the last instant. He laughed nervously and said, “Ah, never mind. I see you’ve got your banjo; why don’t we just jam a little bit?”

  Hicks laughed scornfully. “Only jam I know is what I put on my toast with my sorghum. Besides, I don’t reckon we know too many of the same tunes. Can you play ‘Hares on the Mountain’?”

  Rob knew that the same folk song could have half a dozen different titles. “No, not as such.”