by Vicki Lane
Miss Caro and Miss Geneva now found useful work for me, mainly in keeping the books of the Center and in writing letters to solicit new clients and supporters. Both had quickly determined that I was useless at the weaving and spinning they sought to teach the local women and so had set me to working with some of the girls to improve their reading skills. I had a small group aged fourteen to sixteen and Fanchon was among them. These were girls who, it had been determined, should be tutored and encouraged to enter the Asheville Normal School for Teachers.
They were all bright but woefully uneducated. Their schooling had been often interrupted by family needs and only a few had been able to attend the high school in Hot Springs. It was my task to improve their reading skills and introduce them to some of the classics. None had ever read a novel or a magazine or anything beyond their schoolbooks and the family Bible. Indeed, many of their families actively discouraged the very idea of reading for pleasure.
We had a varied selection of books to choose from. I began ambitiously with readings from Shakespeare and was amazed at the ease with which these untutored girls understood the antique language. (When I voiced my surprise at this, Miss Geneva pointed out that many of the mountain colloquialisms that we found so quaint were, in fact, survivals from the Elizabethan dialect.) One jolly young woman in my reading group took a particular liking to Romeo and Juliet after we read the balcony scene and begged to borrow the volume so that she could read more at home. I got to see what happens, Miss Lily, she said, clutching the book to her. I fear there’ll be trouble with the families if them two runs off together.
The next time our little group met, she told me that her father had seen her reading the play and had decreed she hadn’t ought to read such. But Daddy, she had wailed, hit’s Literature what Miss Lily is teachin us. Well, he had told her grudgingly, you can read it but you better not enjoy it.
Most of my students were delightful— lively and eager to know more of the world beyond their mountain coves. They were happiest when I would tell them something of life in the city— many of them had never been as far as Asheville and a few never even to the county seat. They were like a litter of pups, wagging and eager for attention.
Especially Tildy. She always accompanied Fanchon (her adopted sister, I had learned) to my reading group. Tildy, I must admit, was probably the brightest of the lot, but she was so pushing— and so unattractive— that I found myself pretending not to see her eager hand when I asked for volunteers to read. When she did read, it was in a fast, high-pitched nasal whine, words run together so as to cover as much ground as possible in her allotted time, her eyes always darting toward me in search of approval.
Fanchon was just the opposite— she would have to be coaxed to read, but when she did it was in a low musical tone. Somehow the mountain twang that made Tildy’s speech harsh changed on Fanchon’s lips to a sweet lilt.
She was a favorite with everyone. She sang the old ballads—“love songs” she called them, though many dealt with death and murder— in a lovely clear soprano and was quite accomplished on the five-string banjo. Indeed, a young man from “outside” had recently spent a week in Hot Springs, traveling every day to the Center to record Fanchon singing these ballads. I learned that he was the latest of the “songcatchers” who were mining the Appalachians for the old songs that had traveled from Scotland and England and Ireland to America. Marshall County was full of men and women who knew these old ballads. A little community called Sodom was said to have numerous singers, and in Hot Springs they still boasted that their own Jane Hicks Gentry had known more of the old songs than anyone in the state.
I began to notice that whenever Fanchon performed for us, Tildy would make a point of being hard at work on the wonderful quilt she was making. This quilt was the inspiration of Miss Caro, who, seeing the truly exquisite needlework Tildy was capable of, had drawn on squares of muslin pictures of the various wild animals of the mountains— opossum, raccoon, squirrel, chipmunk, turkey, deer, skunk, bobcat, groundhog, box tortoise— the list was long. And Tildy, with appliqué and embroidery, was executing the blocks for this special quilt. It had been Caro’s idea that this quilt be presented to President and Mrs. Roosevelt, thereby gaining the Center nationwide attention.
Poor ugly, eager Tildy. I can see now what a trial it must have been for her to have the lovely Fanchon as her adopted sister. The way of the world is to favor the handsome and beautiful. They are born with an advantage not unlike inherited wealth, while their plainer brothers and sisters must clamber to catch up. Even Tildy’s parents seemed to favor Fanchon. And small wonder: Tildy, with her homely face, was sour and unpleasant— awkward, except at her needlework, while Fanchon, Fanchon of the quiet charm and radiant beauty, was like a fairy child, blessed with all the graces.
I was fascinated by her from the beginning and began to imagine a wider life for her as my protégée, something even beyond the wonders of the Asheville Normal School. Voice lessons, beautiful clothing, dainty shoes for those slender feet. And travel— I would show her marvels beyond her imagining.
Let me be honest, as I have promised to be. I was in love, as besotted with Fanchon as Ben Hamilton is with my great-granddaughter. But my intentions were pure— or so I believed.
CHAPTER 14
THIS IS NOT A THREAT
(FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 9)
THERE WAS A BLACK CAR PARKED NEAR THE WORKSHOP when Elizabeth came down from her house early Friday morning. She was in search of Ben, hoping to talk with him and smooth over the misunderstanding— is that what it is?—that threatened to undo their usual happy working relationship. She had Kyra’s sketchbook with her, planning to give it to her nephew to return on his next trip to Asheville.
Elizabeth hesitated, then pulled in next to the strange car and got out, looking around for Ben. This is getting ridiculous, she thought as she peered into the workshop. We’re going to have to communicate better. And whose car is that anyway?
“…fuck do you think you are?” Ben’s voice, loud and furious, came from the tractor shed below the workshop. “Are you fucking threatening me, is that it? Well, you can tell your fucking boss—”
An unfamiliar voice interrupted her nephew’s angry outburst. “No, Mr. Hamilton, this is most definitely not a threat. My employer was very clear. Let’s just call it— good advice. From a friend. It could be dangerous for you to continue to see Miss Peterson— dangerous for both of you.”
The diesel engine of the tractor sputtered and caught. The green and yellow tractor roared out of the shed and headed up the road, Ben at its wheel. His jaw was set and his cap pulled low. A dark-haired, heavyset man wearing a white polo shirt, dark trousers, and sunglasses came striding toward the black car.
Catching sight of Elizabeth, he paused, his hand on the car’s door handle. “You must be Mrs. Goodweather.” It was closer to an accusation than a question. “I suggest that you encourage your hotheaded nephew to take seriously what I just told him.”
Elizabeth shook herself out of the stunned paralysis that had seemed to affect her and called out, just before the car door slammed, “Who do you work for?”
The dark-tinted window lowered with a faint hiss. The sunglasses glinted at her. “The family,” said the unsmiling lips, and the window slid shut.
The black car purred down the long driveway. At some distance behind her the scraping and clanking of the tractor’s bucket against the dirt and gravel of the road suggested that Ben was digging out the water breaks. She considered briefly, then took the sketchbook out of the jeep and put it on a table in the workshop.
The tractor was still noisily busy and Elizabeth decided to give Ben’s temper a little time to cool down. She checked the bulletin board where upcoming orders were posted, assembled her materials, and settled down at the big table to work. Dried flowers— fragrant lavender, airy baby’s breath, yellow and blue statice, and rosy-red cockscomb celosia— filled baskets on the table before her, and she settled into the task of arranging t
he blooms into small bunches and fixing them to a straw wreath form with long U-shaped pins. The heady smell of the lavender and the muted colors of the dried flowers made this task a sensory delight, and she lost herself in the pleasure of creation.
She was almost finished with her second wreath when she heard the tractor approaching. Hurrying to the door, she waved at Ben to stop. He cut off the motor and waited, unsmiling.
“Come in here in the shade a minute, Ben. I need to talk to you.”
Once in the cool of the workshop, he seemed to relax slightly. “I didn’t know you were down here. Did you see that guy? The one in the black car? I’ve got a real feeling that’s the one Kyra calls the nanny. And probably the one who attacked her.” He went to the tiny refrigerator in the corner, pulled out a jug of water, and drank deeply.
“I heard some of what he was saying—” Elizabeth began.
“Bastard was warning me to stay away from Kyra!” Ben pulled off his shirt and wiped his face with it. “Gave me some crap about she’s psychologically unstable and it would be best for both of us—”
“Did he say who sent him?”
Ben looked puzzled. “Well, that would be Kyra’s father, don’t you think? I mean, the guy didn’t actually say so; just ‘my employer feels’ and ‘my employer suggests’ and I assumed— well, hell, who else would it be?”
Elizabeth frowned. “You’re probably right.”
“I was getting so pissed that I was ready to deck him, thinking about what he did to Kyra, but I knew I didn’t have any proof, so I decided just to get out of there.” His smile, the first Elizabeth had seen since the Tawana incident, was slightly embarrassed. “I thought I’d go work on the water breaks— some of them have gotten so shallow they won’t carry all the water if we ever get a big rain— and, with hurricane season, we probably will.” He pulled his shirt back on. “I dug them all out deeper except for the two nearest your house. I’ll get them the first of the week. Right now I’m heading in to Asheville.”
“Ben…are you—”
“I’m going in to see Kyra. I told her I’d help her set up for the studio stroll tomorrow.”
Elizabeth turned back to her wreath making. Ben’s truck went down the road with a friendly beep of the horn as he passed the workshop. She smiled, happy that she and her nephew were back to their old easy relationship. Then she saw the sketchbook.
Shaking her head in dismay— must be that Old Timer’s—she turned back to her work.
* * *
Up at the house for lunch, Elizabeth dialed the number she had written on her hand. There were two buzzes, then a soft voice said, “Yes.”
“Kyra, this is Elizabeth Goodweather.”
“Elizabeth, hi, how are you? I feel bad that I haven’t been in touch to thank you for taking care of me out there.”
“I guess we didn’t take as good care of you as we should have…. Are you doing okay now? Has anything else happened?”
Kyra laughed. “I’m being a good girl and staying with GeeGee. Nothing’s going to happen to me while I’m there. And I’m working in my studio in the River District— getting ready for the show at the QuerY. Ben’s a big help— there’s a studio stroll tomorrow and he’s coming in this afternoon to help me hang some things.”
“That’s one reason I called,” Elizabeth admitted. “I have a sketchbook of yours that you left at Miss Birdie’s a good while back. Your cell phone number was on the cover, so I thought I’d let you know the book’s here. Ben just left, on his way in to see you, and I forgot to give it to him but we’ll get it to you as soon as possible.”
“My sketchbook?” Kyra’s voice was doubtful. “What kind of stuff was in it? I don’t remember….”
“I saw a wonderful sketch of Miss Birdie in her recliner.” Elizabeth was pleased with her Jesuitical answer. No need to mention what else I saw.
“Oh …that book.” There was a guarded quality to the girl’s voice.
“So, anyway, it’s down in the workshop and I’ll try to remind Ben to bring it in—”
“Oh, don’t worry; I’ll remind him too. I’d wondered where that sketchbook was.”
“Kyra, I need to ask you something,” Elizabeth said impulsively. “There was a man out here this morning, a man in a black car…” There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end, but Elizabeth persisted. “He said he was from ‘the family’ and he more or less warned Ben to stay away from you.”
“Do you think I haven’t done the same thing?” Kyra’s reply was quick and bitter. “I warned Ben that my father takes an unhealthy interest in my boyfriends— I told him that he should think about what happened to Boz. Elizabeth, I don’t want Ben hurt, but he just laughs when I say anything.”
Her voice was becoming shrill and Elizabeth broke in. “Kyra, I—” but the girl overrode her, agitation growing with each word.
“Don’t worry— I’m going away after the opening of the show at the QuerY. GeeGee knows a place where I can be away from all of this and I can do my art….” A sob interrupted the spate of words.
“Kyra, sweetie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Elizabeth, you blundering idiot— remember “emotionally fragile”? “I just wanted to ask if the guy in the black car could have been the one you call your nanny.”
A sniffle at the other end and then Kyra answered in her usual voice. “Probably. What did he look like?”
“Heavyset, in his forties, I’d say. Dark hair cut real close, sunglasses.”
“Bingo.”
* * *
The afternoon was hot and Elizabeth lingered on the porch with her after-lunch iced coffee. She had attempted to reach Phillip Hawkins but had only been able to leave a message. I want to tell him about the nanny and get his opinion— not that it would matter to Ben. He’s in deep enamoration, as the girls used to say. But is he in danger? And Phillip may be interested in Kimmie and her white SUV— but I’ll just leave out the part about my careful study of Blondie. No point embarrassing myself. Sherlock, forsooth!
Across the valley the nearest mountains were veiled in the late-summer heat haze. Far beyond, the Blue Ridge was completely obscured and the very air seemed to lie heavy on the land. But in the usual seasonal pattern, several days would go by, each one hotter and hazier than the last, till it seemed, at times, a struggle even to breathe in the thick atmosphere. Then would come the towering thunderheads, creamy billows of cloud that dropped great quantities of cooling rain, suddenly washing the air clean and revealing those far-off peaks in crystalline clarity. Those were the days when the sky was a deep clear blue and the beauty of the fields and woods and gardens beyond words.
But it’s not bad right now, Elizabeth decided, gazing with complacency down at her garden— the bright cadmium yellows of the sunflowers and black-eyed Susans complemented by the butterfly bushes’ soft blues and purples and the mauve mops of joe-pye weed. In the little fish pool below the porch, the fantailed goldfish hung almost motionless. Only the filmy orange and white veils of their tails and fins swayed in some gentle current.
As Elizabeth surveyed her domain, a thought struggled to articulate itself. It’s like a painting— a Monet or maybe a van Gogh. But it’s dynamic, changing all the time. And isn’t that part of the beauty and the challenge as well— to make a garden that will be beautiful year-round? Maybe that’s a reason to paint a landscape— to capture a place at a particular moment…and maybe eliminate the weeds.
She looked down at her little pond, noting that the lotuses whose lush blooms had been so breathtaking in July were now spreading ominously, threatening to take over the entire pool. The flowers, with their many petals of pink-tinged translucent white, had been coolly fragrant. She had showed them proudly to visitors, explaining how the Hindus used the lotus with its long stem reaching down to the mud as a symbol— beauty arising from darkness. Now, however, those large round leaves held high above the water were advancing relentlessly on the open half of the pool, and green pods, like drooping sh
owerheads, stood ready to release their ripening seeds. If she didn’t want her goldfish pond to become a lotus swamp, something would have to be done.
Monet had gardeners tending his pond, ripping out the water lilies that would cover the surface of the water if left to their own devices. He made sure that a pleasing proportion of water showed, that the water lilies lay in artfully artless patterns. And then he painted it. I wonder if he looked at his work and thought “There, that’s how it will be for all time.”
She smiled at the thought, then, pulling off her boots, grabbed her pruning shears and pattered down the steps to the pool. As one of those grand old ladies of gardening— Vita Sackville-West? Gertrude Jekyll?— said, “Hoick ’em out!” At least it’ll be cool in the water.
* * *
She was covered in the rank pond mud and the pile of uprooted lotuses and cattails had grown to massive proportions when she heard the telephone ringing. She attempted to ignore it, secure in the knowledge that the voice mail would pick up before she even got to the steps. She pulled herself out of the little pool and picked up the filter in its bucket. It was choked with mud. It would need to be taken apart and its mesh netting sprayed clean with the hose.
The phone was ringing again. She wiped off her hands on the few remaining dry parts of her shirt and hurried for the steps. Too late; the ringing had stopped, but when she picked up, there was a voice mail from Phillip. Quickly she dialed the number.
“Hi, I was cleaning out the fish pond,” she said when he answered on the first ring. “Did you call twice?”
“Only once,” he replied. “I wondered how your painting class went. Did you make friends with the second Mrs. Peterson?”
“I sat next to her.” Jesuitical again, Elizabeth, she scolded herself. “And she was driving her husband’s car— a white SUV.”
