And that brass bedstead over there...why couldn’t she look at it? There was no harm in wash boilers or bedsteads. And why not look at the chicken house if she wanted to? She wished Henry would explain, but he was silent, thoughtful, his eyes riveted on the porch.
More time passed. Carrie was getting very tired of standing still, and she had begun to break the monotony by balancing on one foot and then the other when the cabin’s front door finally opened. Margaret Culpeper came out on the porch. She was dressed in a dark, enveloping garment, and her tightly-bunned white hair caught the sunlight as she came to stand at the top of the steps, giving her an angelic halo that, Carrie thought, might be far from what she deserved.
As Margaret peered down at them, her son came out behind her, and this time he chose to lean on the wall next to the brass bell. During the long wait Carrie had noticed that the bell’s pull rope led inside the house where visitors couldn’t reach it. Well, maybe it really was to call the family to dinner...or something. She almost laughed. Folks like this didn’t have any use for doorbells. It was plain they didn’t expect visitors.
Margaret broke the silence. “Well, come on then, come closer,” she said, sounding impatient. “Micah sez ye’re kin, thet right? Ye’ve come to talk?”
“Yes,” Carrie answered, walking toward the porch and glancing at the copper wash boiler out of the corner of her eye as she walked around it. “Our name is Culpeper, spelled like yours, with two p’s. I’m Carrie. This is my brother, Herman. We’re from Tulsa. Our folks left the Ozarks in 1941. They never came back, but now that we’re getting up in years, Herman and I wanted to visit any relatives we might have here. We thought you would be family and could tell us more about the rest of our relatives in this area.”
Carrie halted at the foot of the porch and looked up into Margaret’s face, which showed more suspicion than welcome. Her son—Micah, she had called him—certainly remained wary. Though he was lounging against the wall and still looked relaxed, his deeply lined face was alert and cold, as if he were daring them to make a false move.
Carrie felt nervous sweat trickling down the valley between her breasts. “Well, you see, our folks never came back here, because...um, well, we think there was some kind of family disagreement a long time ago, but they—that is, our parents—are gone now, and since probably the ones who lived here then”—she looked into Margaret’s ancient, wrinkled face—“ah, most of those who lived here back then may be gone too, well, ur, why would anyone still be
angry at anyone, all these years later, I mean?”
She knew she was babbling, and she felt like a fool, especially since Henry was next to her, the strong, silent male hanging on her every word. He must be wishing he’d done the talking. But, my goodness, how could anyone act normal when they were faced by a stranger with a shotgun?
“Ah,” said Margaret, still studying Carrie, “I remember ye from the woods.” Then, suddenly, her lips lifted in a smile that, somehow, didn’t seem quite genuine, but she stood aside and waved an arm toward the door. “Well, here ye aire then, come in, come in.”
The sudden change in mood startled Carrie, and by now she’d decided she didn’t want to go inside that house at all. She wanted to go back to the Folk Center, get on with her weekend, and forget this stupid involvement in something that really had nothing to do with her. But it was too late. Micah was opening the door for them.
Carrie, with Henry right behind her, his hand now a light touch on her elbow, crossed the porch—and passed through a time warp.
People used to live like this, she thought, but today? Was it real? This was like living in a stage set.
The few pieces of furniture in the log-paneled room were made of hand-hewn wood, though they were far from being crude. The five rush-seat chairs and rocker that faced the large stone fireplace were padded with hand-stitched, tufted quilting. There was a braided circular rug on the floor, its riotous colors gaudy and cheerful among the wood tones. Carrie realized the rug, at least, wasn’t an antique. The bright fabric pieces had the look of polyester.
The room was spotless.
Margaret Culpeper indicated that Henry was to sit in the rocker and pointed out another chair for Carrie before she sat on a low stool between the front wall and the fireplace. Micah Culpeper still chose to stand. He had come inside and was leaning on the wall again. Carrie wished he’d either sit or leave. How could she really talk with Margaret if he kept standing there like a guard?
In spite of Micah’s wary presence and Henry’s warning, Carrie couldn’t help looking around. There was a curtained-off rectangle against the back wall that probably held a bed. A table with a mountain dulcimer on it stood by the bed curtain, and Carrie thought of the music she’d heard in the woods.
Next on the wall was a door to what might be a kitchen or bathroom, and she wondered if the home had indoor plumbing, a kitchen stove, or refrigeration. She hadn’t seen any outhouses in the clearing, but she hadn’t seen electric wires or propane tanks either. Was the wiring underground?
Ah, yes, there was an electric outlet on the wall, but nothing was plugged into it. The lamps in the room were plain, no-nonsense, and had full oil bowls and glass chimneys. All the chimneys were clean except for the one sitting on the table next to Carrie’s chair, which had a light coat of soot. It had probably been used this morning when Margaret ate breakfast at this table.
There was the acid smell of burnt things in the room—lamp oil and wood.
“Will ye have tea?” asked Margaret when they were seated. “Make hit from yarbs I collec’ in the woods and from my garden patch. Most of ’em’s native here.”
Carrie hesitated and was surprised when Henry leaned forward in the rocker and said, “Yes, that would be most kind.”
He, at least, wasn’t afraid of being poisoned in this house.
Margaret rose easily and went to take three white cups from a cupboard next to the stone fireplace. Then she seemed to remember her son. “Ye can go on, Micah. We’ll set and chat a while. I’ll ring the bell if I need ye.”
Carrie looked around again as Micah slipped out the door and saw that the rope to the porch bell hung right beside Margaret’s stool. So it was a warning bell, to be rung in emergencies.
Suddenly, the thought of the gun concealed inside Henry’s overalls was a comfort, and the very fact its presence made her feel safer was in itself unsettling. She usually wanted nothing to do with guns. To be honest, right now she wanted nothing to do with the Mountain View Culpepers either. But she couldn’t forget Dulcey Mason—or her family.
She sighed, and both Margaret and Henry looked at her. She made no explanation. She couldn’t, in fact, think of anything to say, so she just sat there, watching Margaret make her “yarb” tea. Hadn’t she meant herb?
Their hostess opened a tin canister and spooned a combination of what looked like stem chunks and dried leaves into a heavy pottery teapot. She lifted a kettle from a grate that squatted over burning coals in the fireplace and filled the pot with steaming water. After putting the kettle back on the grate, she sat again, looking at Carrie as if she expected her to open the conversation.
But what should she say? So much depended on this conversation.
Finally Margaret broke the silence.
“Ye be Culpepers?”
Carrie gulped. Well, of course, that was what she should be talking about. She and Henry had worked it all out, but now, in this out-of-time place, everything was topsy-turvy and all their careful plans had gone completely out of her head.
“Um, yes, and when I mentioned why we were here to a woman at the Folk Center she told me about you, and I thought we should come see if there was a family connection.”
While the tea brewed, Carrie chattered on about the bomber plant jobs and life in Tulsa for an imaginary Culpeper family. Margaret said nothing and most of the time stared into space, only occasionally glancing over at Carrie with what—and Carrie thought she must be imagining it—looked like amuseme
nt.
“And then I saw you in the woods, out on the path, yesterday,” she gestured in that direction with her arm, “and I thought you must live this way.”
Margaret was definitely smiling as she interrupted Carrie. “Ah, Tulsey, ye say? Well, now, don’t rightly know. Not many from thet time left. They’s jes my husband, gone more’n twenty year now, ’n’ his two sisters, both widdered and livin’ together over Timbo way. Puraps they’d recall other kin. Robert E. niver did say—thet’s my husband, Robert E. Lee Culpeper. Culpepers come here from Kaintuck durin’ the war. Think they wuz leavin’ to keep from goin’ to the fightin’, truth be told. My boys calls ’em draft dodgers, though I don’t think they know thet fer a fact.”
“Well,” Carrie said, “maybe my family came here then too, then went on to Oklahoma shortly after. I guess that would be possible.”
Margaret gave her a strange look. “No, I reckon not, it bein’ the War ’tween the States we’re speakin’ of, o’course.”
Henry cleared his throat, and Carrie was sure he was covering up a laugh. She didn’t look at him, but kept her eyes on Margaret, saying only, “Oh, ah, yes, of course.”
Margaret went on. “They’s bin a lot of Culpepers here in past years, ’n’ now they’s quite a few in jes our bunch—me and my four sons. Three of the boys married. I got grandkids, great-grandkids, three great-greats.”
She paused, reflecting for a moment, then said, “Any more Culpepers over yer way?”
Good, Carrie thought, our story is going to work. She doesn’t know all the history. “Well,” she said, “not so many. I have a son with his father’s name and Hen...Herman has a married daughter who lives in Kansas City now. But, since our family came from around here, we probably are kin.”
“Ah,” Margaret said, nodding her head as she got up to strain a pale gold liquid from the teapot into the three cups. She handed a cup to Henry, set one on the table next to Carrie, and returned to her own low stool by the fireplace holding the third cup. She sipped before she put the cup down on the bench beside her.
Carrie lifted her cup, tasted cautiously, and found that the tea—whatever “yarbs” it was made from—was delicious. She had seen no sugar, but the liquid was slightly sweet. The aroma spoke of lemon balm. She wondered if the brew included ginseng and glanced at Henry. He was sipping slowly, his eyes on their hostess.
Margaret picked up her cup again and held it near her mouth, breathing in the fragrance of the hot liquid as Carrie herself had done.
“They’s more. They’s what ye really come fer,” said Margaret in a matter of fact way from behind her cup.
Carrie almost dropped her own cup. “Oh, I, well...”
The dark eyes were on Carrie’s face, calm and serious. “Ye didn’t dress in thet get-up ’n’ come here jest about bein’ kin, though ye may be kin fer truth. Ye come here fer another reason. Now tell me what thet is a’fore I ring the bell.” Her free hand went to the rope.
Carrie spoke quickly. “The gowerow. Did you know when you told me about the gowerow that a child had been kidnapped from Mountain View?”
Margaret said nothing, just continued looking at Carrie with those deep, dark eyes.
“You said the gowerow had taken a child. We wanted to find out if it was this child.”
Margaret snorted. “Thet were funnin’ fer the tourists. Pure funnin’. Ye shouldn’a took it serious.” She gazed toward the ceiling.
Carrie went on, speaking gently, a prayer in the back of her thoughts. “This child is a little girl, and her parents are wild with worry. Her mother has done almost nothing but cry since she learned strangers took the child. The father paces the floor, day and night.”
Margaret said nothing for a moment. Then she drained her cup, set it aside, and stood, the rope still in her hand. “Nothin’ to me. Time fer ye to go. Hit’s bin a nice visit.”
Henry voice broke in. “Could you wait? At least let me finish this delicious tea. And tell us about the gowerow. We’ve never heard that story before.”
Margaret hesitated. Then, nodding her head so slightly it could have been a tic, she sat, looked at the ceiling again, and began to hum—a slow, tuneless roll of sound that awakened the chills along Carrie’s backbone.
That confirmed it. The name “Mad Margaret” was accurate. If Henry wanted to stay, well, they’d have to stay, but Carrie would have said, “Let’s get out of here,” had she been given the opportunity. Mad Margaret couldn’t tell them anything about Dulcey’s kidnapping. She was just a crazy old woman. The gowerow comment must have been coincidence.
At least a minute of tuneless humming passed before Margaret began to chant words in the same tone, “Hoohoo, gowerow, don’t scare me, three little young-uns in the apple tree. Hoohoo, gowerow, go away, we’re comin’ down, ’n’ steal no apples today.”
The strange song trailed off, and Margaret was silent again, her eyes closed. She acted like she had forgotten them. Had she fallen asleep?
Carrie looked over at Henry. He was sitting forward in his chair, listening, alert.
He said, his voice low and measured, the rhythm almost a copy of Margaret’s chant. “And who is the gowerow?”
Silence, then the hum began again, though Margaret’s eyes remained closed.
Henry repeated, “Who is the gowerow?”
More of the humming, then, “Big, ugly beast. Said to be mixed razorback hawg ’n’ swamp ’gator. Thet’s a dragon-like thing. Eats kids, ’specially bad-uns. Grown folks too.” Margaret opened her eyes. “See,” she snapped, “foolishness. Who’d take thet fer true? Jest foolin’ tourists.”
She rang the bell.
The clang made Carrie jerk with shock, and she stood, eager to leave. Then something stopped her. She turned to Margaret and, not really thinking about her words, said, “So you know nothing about the kidnapping of Tracy Teal’s little girl?”
Margaret’s eyes widened in a paralyzing stare. She whirled at Carrie, grabbing her by the arm and shaking her as if she were a child being punished.
“Tracy? Thet young-un is Tracy’s?”
Carrie froze, unable to move. “Yes, y-yes. I...”
“Sit! Ye sit! I’ll do the talkin’. Keep still, both o’ ye. Quick now, woman, sit!”
Margaret’s grip tightened on Carrie’s arm, and she shoved her down in the chair. Henry, who had started to get up, sat too, just as the back door opened and a stranger—a younger version of Micah—strode into the room.
This time the gun was an automatic pistol.
Carrie stared at it, held, oh-so-casually, in the man’s right hand, simple dark barrel pointing at the floor.
An image she’d never forget floated inside her head. She saw Farel Teal in candlelight, stains that looked black marking his chest, draining down the side of his shirt, pooling on the floor. A knife wound.
The Culpepers liked carrying guns. Did they carry knives too?
Chapter XV
Margaret ignored the gun and bobbed her head, welcoming her son.
“There ye be, Zeph. These here folks aire Carrie and Herman Culpeper, from Tulsey, Oklahoma, third cuzins of Robert E. Knowed ye’d want to say ‘howdy’ to some o’ yer pap’s kin, come to call.
“Carrie and Herman, this here’s my youngest son, name of Zephaniah Lee Culpeper. Call him Zeph.”
Henry stood, smiled, and held a hand out to the startled Zeph, who suddenly seemed unable to figure out what to do with the gun he was holding. He finally shifted it to his left hand, wiped his right hand on his jeans as if he’d been touching something dirty, and shook hands with Henry. Then he nodded toward Carrie, who smiled and nodded in return but said nothing.
Margaret laughed, and, looking at Carrie and
Henry, she now pointed toward the gun and said, “Sometimes, as ye kin see, we use the bell to signal trouble. Zeph wouldn’a kenned what I wanted, so he come prepared. These days ye need be wary out here in the forest. Lots o’ strangers up to no good—thet right, Zeph?”
&
nbsp; Again he nodded, looking at his mother rather than at Carrie or Henry. He still hadn’t said anything.
“Guess ye’ll be off to work then? I wanted ye to make the acquaintance o’ these folks a’fore leavin’, thet’s all. Micah met ’em when they come. Guess Hab’s still away? Well—mebbe they’ll meet ’nother time.”
Zephaniah Culpeper nodded at Carrie and Henry once more and finally spoke. “Pleased to meet you now. Uh, Ma, want anything else before I go?”
“No, son, things is fine, ‘cept mebbe ye could check in town ’n’ see when my radio’ll be fixed. I shore do miss hit, been gone a long time. Oh... and when did ye say Hab’s expected?”
“Sometime tonight. He was planning to get groceries and some fried chicken on the way through town for him and Micah and for...”—he stopped just a second too long before going on, and Carrie wondered about the pause—“...and for you too, if you want.”
“No, thankee, son, I got plenty, but I hope Hab remembers to get more milk fer the big house. Ah, well, now, ye run along, don’t want t’ make ye late.”
Zephaniah Culpeper bounced his head toward his mother’s guests one last time, said, “I’ll check on your radio, Ma,” and disappeared through the back door.
“He drives a bus fer the shows,” Margaret told them. “Brings folks up from the Folk Center parkin’ lot and takes ’em back down after the shows finish.” Then she was silent, her head turned slightly toward the window. Everything in her manner suggested that she was waiting for something to happen.
Carrie still didn’t speak. She hadn’t a clue to what was coming next and hoped Margaret would be the one to open the conversation. Henry remained quiet too. All that could be heard in the room were soft hisses and cracks from the fireplace and an occasional swish of indrawn breath. Once, Carrie heard her own sigh.
Then, at last, there was the noise of a truck engine starting and the fading sound of a motor as it left the clearing. Silence returned, and Carrie thought, what now?
Music to Die For Page 13
