by Anne George
“That’s what I heard.” There was a pause. I could hear children arguing in the background. “Just a minute, Mrs. Hollowell. Jamie, give Ethan back his Cookie Monster. Go get one of your own toys.” A pause. “Right now, Jamie. I mean it.” And then, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hollowell. They know something is wrong, and all they’re doing is squabbling.
“No, nothing else has happened, thank God. What I called about was to see if we could meet somewhere today. There were some things I didn’t get to ask you yesterday about my sister. Some important things. And, also, I’ve got information that might help with your cousin.”
“Information about Virginia? You can’t tell me on the phone?”
“It’s a long story, Mrs. Hollowell. I can’t come all the way into Birmingham because of the children. My next-door neighbor can keep them for a while, but not all afternoon. And I hate to ask you to come to Steele. Do you think we could maybe meet in Springville? Maybe for lunch?” She hesitated. “I really wouldn’t ask you if it weren’t important.”
I looked at the wall clock. 9:15.
“Betsy, I just don’t know. I may have to go with my sister back up to Oneonta today.”
“Mrs. Hollowell, I really need to talk to you.” Betsy’s voice lowered and she almost whispered, “I’m scared about something.”
Scared? What in the world about? And why me? It didn’t make sense. I’d only seen the girl one time.
“Please?” A catch in her voice and a barely audible sniff. Betsy was crying.
That got me. The old schoolteacher help-the-kids-out mode kicked in.
“Where in Springville?” I asked. There went all of my plans for the day. The house was a mess. I needed to dust and vacuum. I still hadn’t done all of the washing or paid the bills that had stacked up while we were in Warsaw. So much for good intentions.
“You know where that bakery is right on the main street by the library?”
“The one that has some tables outside?”
“That’s it. They serve soup and sandwiches. Do you think you could meet me around twelve?”
“I’ll be there.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hollowell. Thank you so much.”
We said goodbye and I hung up wondering why in the world I had agreed to this. How could I help this girl? All I knew about her was that she was pretty, had long red hair, and was grieving for her snake-handling sister who had been murdered. Also that she was scared.
“What’s she scared about?” Sister wanted to know when I called her and told her where I was going. “And what does she think you can do, Mouse?”
“I have no idea. But she said she might have some information about Virginia.”
“Well, I hope so. Richard’s on his way up to Oneonta now to see about his daddy. He wanted me to go with him and I said I had to take care of Fay and May.”
“Richardena, the twin’s nanny, is there, isn’t she?”
“Oh, sure. But Debbie’s coming home this afternoon with David Anthony. Can you believe having a baby one day and coming home the next?”
I could tell that Sister was shaking her head just like I was shaking mine. Each of us had had the luxury of four or five days in the hospital when our children were born.
“Anyway,” she continued, “I need to prepare the twins for their little brother.”
I decided I didn’t want to know about these preparations. No two children had ever been better prepared for the birth of a sibling: Debbie and Henry had seen to that. So I told her I would call her when I got back and let her know what Betsy had to say.
There were still signs of Christmas everywhere, wreaths on doors, a few Santas still poised on roofs. Billboards still wished us HAPPY HOLIDAYS from banks or from the anchors of local TV stations, all smiles and red suits. In some homes, I knew, the trees would stay up, lighted. In February, they would be decorated with Easter eggs, biddies, and bunnies.
Christmas does not depart Birmingham quickly or for long. Maybe on the Fourth of July it takes a vacation long enough to watch the fireworks from Vulcan Park.
I went through downtown Birmingham, through Malfunction Junction where several interstates battle it out and where that day, miraculously, there wasn’t a wreck, past the airport exit and onto I-59 North. Traffic wasn’t heavy and, though clouds were coming in from the west, the sun was shining and the temperature was in the high fifties. It would rain later, turn cold the next day, and then warm up, the typical January weather pattern. It’s seldom that we have more than two nights consecutively when the temperature goes below freezing.
Midmorning, midweek, the interstates are a pleasure to drive, a pleasure that the citizens of Jefferson County and Birmingham didn’t have as soon as most large metropolitan areas. Jefferson County didn’t vote for George Wallace for governor; the interstates came to the county line and stopped. There’s a slight chance that it was a coincidence, but where the interstates suddenly became two-lane roads in congested areas, we had what became known as the George Corley Wallace Memorial Bottlenecks. Fred and I would take the kids to visit his parents in Montgomery, an hour-and-a-half drive, and sit at the bottleneck on Highway 31 for an hour trying to get back into Birmingham. Not conducive to family harmony.
That morning there was no bottleneck, though. Nothing but the rolling Appalachians and the deep cuts through the limestone that forms them. Some of the views were breathtaking, and I realized how seldom I noticed them. But, of course, I was usually with Mary Alice.
The Springville exit overlooks a large farm-pond. A sign at the top of the exit pointed right and declared, FISHING, $2 A DAY. So far no one had paid the two dollars; the pond, shimmering in the January sunlight, was deserted. Several cows were in the pasture, though, some of them grazing, some lying down, a sure sign of rain within a few hours.
The entrance to Springville is much like the entrance into Steele, the same railroad track, the main street of business, the old houses. Springville is much closer to Birmingham, though, and has become one of its principal bedroom communities. Just beyond the main street, developments with names like McDonald’s Farms have sprung up for the young professionals who want the small-town life and don’t mind the commute to Birmingham.
I glanced at my watch. I was a few minutes early and thought I would sit at one of the tables in the sun and wait for Betsy. But as I parked, I saw her get out of her car and go into the bakery. Her bright red hair was pulled back into a single plait that reached almost to her waist, and for a second I saw that same hair tumbling over a church pew. Damn.
The bakery was attractive, decorated in blue and white with starched lace curtains and a blue ceramic Dutch shoe holding three almost real-looking white tulips on each of the six tables. Only three of the tables had people sitting at them. Takeout seemed to be the bakery’s big business. There was a line at the cash register, each person holding a sack that proclaimed OLDE HOLLAND BAKERY. The smells were wonderful.
Betsy was already sitting in a chair just inside the doorway, one of two chairs placed there for the obvious purpose of waiting. She looked up and smiled when she saw me.
“Thank you,” she said, as if she were relieved that I had shown up.
“You’re welcome.” That wasn’t the right answer, but it sufficed.
Betsy stood up, no taller than my own five feet, I noticed. But she was more beautiful than I had realized the day before. In spite of her eyes being slightly puffy, their clear hazel was startling. She had the very fair skin that some redheads are blessed with, and a few freckles across her nose.
“We have to order at the counter,” she said, pointing to a chalkboard on the wall with the day’s menu on it. “They’ve got lentil soup today. They make the best in the world.”
“Sounds good.”
We each ordered a bowl of soup and decided we would split a club sandwich. While we were waiting for our food, we sat at a table by the window. The sun was still shining across the table, but a glance at the sky showed the progression of the dark wall of clouds.
Neither of us spoke for a moment. It was noisy in the bakery and I was about to suggest that we go sit at one of the tables outside. As long as the sun was shining, we would be comfortable.
But before I could make the suggestion, Betsy leaned forward and said, “I want to tell you about my sister.”
I nodded. This wasn’t what I had expected, but talking about her sister was probably something she needed to do.
“Susan was fifteen and I was eighteen when our parents were killed in a small plane. They had gone to Florida for the weekend with another couple, the couple who owned the plane. They ran into a thunderstorm.” Betsy picked up the salt shaker (a pink pig with holes in its head) and examined it as if there were some meaning there. She sighed, set it down, and continued.
“I was a freshman at the university, and Susan went to live with our aunt Pearl, our father’s sister. She was a widow and had never had any children, and she and Susan grew very close.”
I began to get the picture.
“Your aunt Pearl. She was a snake handler?”
Betsy nodded. “The sweetest, kindest person who ever lived. She and my father were raised in a strict Baptist family just like Susan and I were. But Aunt Pearl wanted more. She wasn’t satisfied with what she called ‘diluted religion.’ At least that’s what Susan said. She told me once that Aunt Pearl said she wanted to touch God.”
By handling snakes? But I nodded.
Betsy picked up the salt shaker again. “I didn’t know anything about it, what Aunt Pearl was doing. I imagine our parents did, but they never said anything to us. Even after they were killed and I came home for Christmas or spring break, Susan and Aunt Pearl kept what was going on a secret from me.”
She looked up. “I don’t know why Aunt Pearl never tried to proselytize me. But she didn’t. Just Susan.”
“You were older. Your beliefs were already established.”
“I guess so.” Betsy managed a smile. “Or maybe it was simply that she knew how scared I was of snakes.”
The smile faded. “But, you know, that’s part of it. You’re scared to death, but you handle them anyway, thinking your faith will protect you.”
“Which Susan believed.”
Betsy nodded. “Which Susan believed. And Aunt Pearl, too. She died just three years after our parents did. Throat cancer. But by that time, Susan had married Ethan. She married him when she was seventeen. She met him at the church, of course. He was Monk Crawford’s son.”
Tears suddenly rolled down Betsy’s face. She reached for a paper napkin and held it against her face.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hollowell. It just hits me every now and then that Susan’s gone.”
“You stayed close?”
She nodded, the napkin still pressed to her eyes.
“In spite of everything. We just didn’t talk about that part of her life.” Betsy crumpled the napkin in her hand and looked out of the window. “Except once. When Ethan was killed, she asked me to take care of the children if anything happened to her. Which meant that she wasn’t going to give up the handling. And, Lord knows, after what happened to Ethan, it was obvious to her how dangerous it was.”
It hadn’t been a dangerous rattlesnake that had killed Susan, but I didn’t say anything.
“And of course I said yes. I love those children better than anything in the world. Terry does, too.”
“Do you have children of your own?”
“We do now.” A weak smile and a swipe of the napkin under her eyes. “I’m sorry. I know I’m embarrassing you. Do you want to go sit at the tables outside?”
“You’re not embarrassing me. Don’t worry about that.”
Betsy sighed. “I know you can’t understand, I don’t understand myself, but Susan was such a sensible person in so many ways. Such a loving person.”
No, I didn’t, couldn’t understand such need, such religious fervor. What would it be like to want to touch God? To hold up a snake? I shivered.
They called our number and Betsy said, “I’ll get it.”
I watched her get the tray and collect napkins and plastic spoons from a side counter. She looked like a child, I realized, with the long plait almost to the waist of her jeans. She had draped her denim jacket across the back of her chair, and her simple yellow shirt emphasized how small she was.
“Here we go.” Betsy placed the bowl of soup in front of me and handed me a spoon and napkin. “I think you’ll like this. It’s so hot, you might want to put some ice in it.”
We both scooped some ice from our tea with the plastic spoons and dropped it into our soup. It melted immediately.
“Do you work, Betsy?” I asked.
She nodded. “At the telephone company. I called yesterday and I think I can take maternity leave. They allow for special circumstances.”
She passed a basket of crackers to me.
“They’re going to be surprised when they get a request from me for maternity leave.”
I took a package of crackers and looked at her questioningly.
“Terry and I have been married eight years. We’ve tried it all, even in vitro a couple of times. We’ve given up.”
“Will you adopt Susan’s children?”
“Of course. It’s what she would have wanted.”
I was doing some mental calculations while I was opening the crackers.
“Susan married before you did, didn’t she? She waited a while to have children.”
Betsy nodded. “Midtwenties. That’s what I meant about her being sensible in so many ways.”
She took her first sip of the soup. “Umm, good. But still hot. Be careful, Mrs. Hollowell.”
She was right. The lentil soup was delicious. For a few minutes we concentrated on eating. At least I was eating. Betsy was stirring her soup, lifting an occasional spoonful.
The sun disappeared suddenly from our table. The wall of clouds had made it halfway across the sky.
“Susan’s funeral is in the morning at eleven,” Betsy said listlessly as if the sudden shadow had reminded her. “We’re having it at the funeral home, not at the church.”
“What about Holden Crawford’s?” I asked.
“They haven’t released the body yet.” She shivered. “You know how he died, don’t you?”
“I heard.”
Another stir of the soup.
“Well, what I wanted to tell you about your cousin was that Monk never would have hurt her. Chances are that she’s okay somewhere.”
“But he was found dead in her car.”
“That’s what I heard.”
Betsy put her spoon down and touched a napkin to her mouth. “I want to tell you about Monk.”
“Okay.”
“He wasn’t educated, grew up poor as dirt on a tenant farm up near Scottsboro, but he was a good man. A man who believed in his church and his family.”
I nodded and Betsy continued.
“He built that church up there on Chandler Mountain and was known all over the Southeast as one of the leading preachers and handlers.”
Known all over the Southeast? How had I missed out on all of this?
“But when his wife died and then Ethan, he lost his faith,” Susan said. “Got bitten by a timber rattler last summer at a brush-arbor meeting in Tennessee. Almost died.”
I interrupted her. “What’s a brusharbor?”
“It’s like a makeshift church. The handlers don’t have too many real churches or places to meet so in the summertime they build brush-arbors, they call them. Vines and branches. Maybe put plastic over the top. Maybe not. Just temporary places to have meetings.
“Anyway, Monk nearly died, said God had turned his back on him.”
Betsy lifted a spoonful of soup to her mouth and tasted it thoughtfully.
“Like I said, Susan and I didn’t talk about it much, but she told me that Monk had quit handling and was gone most of the time, house painting. She was worried about the church.”
“The church?”
&n
bsp; “Apparently there’s a lot of politics involved just like in everything. Several people were eager to take Monk’s place.”
“As head snake handler.” I sounded more cynical than I had intended.
But Betsy didn’t take offense.
“Including Susan, I’m sure,” she said.
She gave up trying to eat and pushed her food away. “I know it sounds crazy, but I’m sure she was that involved. And I’m sure that’s why she and Monk both were killed. Susan was a woman and Monk had lost his faith. The handlers don’t take kindly to either.”
“Women aren’t supposed to handle?”
“They can. They’re kept in subservient roles, though. Have to dress in long dresses, answer when their husbands crook their fingers. That kind of thing.”
I thought of the outfit Susan had worn in the church. The long skirt, how neatly it had been arranged around her. Was it possible that she had been killed in this day and age for being an “uppity” woman?
“Oh, I almost forgot.”
Betsy reached in her purse, which was hanging on the knob of the chair.
“I found this at Susan’s house yesterday. I think it may belong to your cousin. Her name is Virginia, isn’t it?”
“Virginia Nelson.”
I took the piece of paper that Betsy held out to me. On it was written “Virginia N. (206) 555-0105.”
“It was by the phone in Susan’s kitchen.”
206? I wondered where that area code was. And if this was really a lead to Luke’s Virginia. Virginia, even Virginia N. was a common name.
“Thanks,” I said, slipping the paper in my purse.
“I hope you find her there. Like I said, she’s somewhere and all right, though. Monk wouldn’t have hurt her.”
But someone had definitely hurt Monk and his daughter-in-law. Perhaps Virginia had been at the wrong place at the wrong time?
“And what I wanted to ask you about Susan was if you saw a cameo on her? She always wore a cameo on a long gold chain. Always. It belonged to our grandmother. I got her ring and Susan got her cameo. Susan said it was her talisman.”
“I didn’t see anything like that. She was lying on her stomach, though. It could have been under her.”
