High Lonesome Sound

by Jaye Wells

  “You sound more like a philosopher than a reverend.”

  Reverend Peale’s smile was indulgent but genuine. “I might be from a small town, but that don’t mean I’m a small man.” He motioned to the bookshelves. “You don’t have to live in a city to access the world’s big ideas. You’re a writer. Surely you understand that books hold the key to all of life’s great mysteries.”

  “True enough.”

  Reverend Peals set his glass on the desk. “Now, why don’t you tell me what you really want to know?”

  Peter thought about it for a moment. “Honestly? I’m not sure. I’ve talked to several of the residents about the history of Moon Hollow, and I’ve heard lots of interesting stories, but something’s bothering me.”

  “What’s that?”

  Peter shrugged. “It seems odd that such religious people actually believe in ghosts and demons.”

  “You ever read the Bible, son?”

  “In Sunday school. Long time ago.”

  “You ever heard the story about Jesus in the wilderness for forty days and nights?”

  “It’s vaguely familiar.”

  His expression became animated in a way that convinced Peter that Reverend Peale might have been a great college professor in another life.

  “The story goes that after he was baptized, Jesus retreated to the desert, and while he was there, the devil tried to tempt the Savior. Is that story any different from the ones Bunk told you?”

  “Okay. The Bible is a parable, but some of the people in this town believe that Alodius Fry actually had a confrontation with a devil in front of that building.” He pointed out the window and across the street at the church.

  “Is the Bible a parable? Don’t millions of people around the world believe that the words in the Bible are literally the Word of God?”

  Peter nodded to concede the point. “For argument’s sake, let’s assume they’re correct.”

  The reverend smiled indulgently. “Yes, let’s.”

  “How did evil come into being? I’m no theologian, but none of the stories I ever read addressed its origins.”

  The reverend opened his hands. “Evil is created when man sins.”

  Peter blinked at him. “Do you believe that?”

  “Of course.”

  “Isn’t that vaguely blasphemous? I thought the Bible said that the devil was a fallen angel.”

  “Drink up, Mr. West.”

  Clearly the reverend was done debating theology. Probably for the best, Peter decided, since he was hardly qualified to argue any religious fact with anyone. The last time he’d been in a church was for his wedding, and look how God had punished him for that.

  “You know what?” He lifted his glass. “Don’t mind if I do.” The first sip burned his lips and branded his tongue and throat.

  Reverend Peale chuckled at his pained expression. “Good, huh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  His companion lifted the glass to the light and studied the amber liquid. “Deacon Fry paid me a visit last night.”

  Peter stilled. “Oh?”

  The reverend nodded. “He was asking about demons, too.” He made a little life-is-funny sound and drained the liquid. “You heard about the vandalism at the cemetery couple nights ago?”

  Peter was glad he’d only had a couple of sips of whiskey since it appeared things were about to get hairy. “Yes, sir.”

  “Upsetting business. Young people these days ain’t got no respect.”

  “The deacon thinks it was a teenager?”

  “Nah. It’s just to me, everyone’s young.” Reverend Peale shrugged. “Doubt they’ll ever know for sure who did it.”

  Peter relaxed. “That’s too bad.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Like you said,” the reverend’s eyes twinkled, “unexplained mysteries keep men like us in business.”

  37

  Porch Diplomacy

  Granny Maypearl

  The aching in Granny Maypearl’s knees meant rain was coming. She’d have a wet walk home but there was nothing for it. Important business needed tending to, and she meant to get it done.

  As she rocked on his porch, her fingers itched for an instrument. She hadn’t picked up her mama’s dulcimer in months, but, right then, she longed for a connection to the women who came before her something fierce. She needed their wisdom and their strength to know what was right. But she didn’t have her dulcimer, so she used her God-given instrument and sang a song she’d learned at her Granny Bell’s knee.

  She was far enough from town that no one would hear her and tell Deacon Fry on her for singing something that wasn’t a hymn. When they were young, the whole town would get together to sing the traditional songs, and everyone knew little Virgil Fry had a strong, clear voice that could make any song sound like a prayer. But for some reason, after the accident, he refused to sing except in church.

  She pushed thoughts of Virgil away as she concentrated on singing her song. She closed her eyes and let the melody flow out of her. The breeze picked up and made her hair dance. As she reached the chorus, the trees creaked and moaned like backup singers. The mountain had always liked this song.

  Footsteps crunched on the gravel drive. She let the last note trail off before she opened her eyes. The man on the steps paused.

  “Granny Maypearl, I presume.”

  She tipped her chin. “Mr. West.”

  “To what do I owe this pleasure?” His tone was casual as he continued onto the porch, but his posture was cautious.

  She didn’t fall for the extra bit of Southern charm he’d used to lubricate his words. “Hmph. Heard you been putting some ideas in my granddaughter’s head.”

  More carefully this time, he spoke. “Ruby?”

  She squinted at him. “You thick, boy?”

  “No, ma’am.” He smirked like he was indulging her. City folk always thought they knew best, didn’t they?

  “Then come on and sit down. We got some talking to do.”

  He obeyed, which proved he wasn’t all bad. When he was settled in the metal chair across from her, he put his hands up to show he was ready.

  “I got a visit from my granddaughter today. Said she was leaving town tomorrow with you.”

  He leaned back in his chair and sighed. “So much for not telling anyone.”

  “She did the right thing, telling me.”

  “Except now you’re here to threaten me.”

  He sounded like such a Pitiful Pearl she cackled. “I ain’t here to threaten you, son. What could an old woman like me to do a fella like you, anyhow?”

  “I’m sure you still have some tricks up your sleeve.”

  “Might be true, Mr. West. That just might be.”

  She rocked for a spell, watching the clouds gather and feeling the pressure inside her joints. Peter seemed content to give her time, and she aimed to take it. Eventually, she looked his way again. “My people been up on this mountain long as memory serves. Most of us ’round here is like that. Families come over from Scotland or Ireland bringing their old traditions to the mountains. Some of our kin people mixed in with the Indians who lived here. Got to be where their ways and our ways mixed to create new old ways. Time marched on and people worked hard to survive. But children? They don’t care about tradition. They want everything new.”

  “Aren’t children always like that?”

  She gave him the side-eye. “You got children, Mr. West?”

  He shook his head. Didn’t surprise her none.

  “Used to be children obeyed their parents. I blame that dang boob tube. Filling their heads with all sorts of things. Make them get too big for their britches, like they know better than their elders.”

  “Have you ever left the mountain?”

  “Course I have! I ain’t been to New York City or London-town, but the way I see it, people is people. Bigger city just means bigger problems, I reckon, but the problems aren’t so different. Hatin’ the ones they should love, and lovin’ the ones they’d b
est avoid. Being greedy and small. Wanting what other people have.”

  He nodded. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “My Rose was like that. Thought she was smarter than her mama. Wanted to live a bigger life. But you know what? That world out there,” she tipped her chin to indicate the world outside the mountain, “it uses up girls like my Rose.” She looked him in the eye. “It’ll use up Ruby, too, and you know it.”

  Peter leaned back in his chair and looked at her for a long moment before speaking. “Did Ruby tell you why she’s leaving? Not the wanting a big life part, but the other reasons?”

  “You mean what happened in the cemetery?” She shook her head. “Damn fool child. Messing with power she don’t understand. It’s my fault. If I’d been around to teach her the proper ways she wouldn’t have done that.”

  “I don’t see how it’s your fault. She’s an adult.”

  “You wouldn’t understand. It was my job to train her but I didn’t. Thought I had all the time in the world, but time is a real bastard. Tricks ya.”

  “If she told you why she needs to leave, why are you trying to get her to stay? You know what Deacon Fry and his cronies will do to her if they find out.”

  “Thing is, Mr. West, there’s worse things in these mountains than Deacon Fry.”

  “All the more reason to get her out of here,” he shot back.

  “Maybe so.” She rocked a little faster. Now that they were down to the truth of things, she felt like she had June bugs in her britches. “That’s why I’m not here to ask you not to take her.”

  “Why are you here, then?”

  “I need you to promise me that you’ll stay until after the Decoration.”

  “Why does it matter if we leave before or after?”

  “It just does. Surely, waiting a few hours won’t make a difference for you.”

  “The real question is: What difference does it make for you?”

  She chuckled. “That’s a good question, but not one I’m sure I can answer easily. Truth is, if I told you the reasons you’d laugh and call me a crazy old woman. So I’m just asking you to stay as a favor to me.”

  “Favors usually get paid back.”

  She sucked at her teeth for a few seconds. This boy was sharper than she’d given him credit for originally. “I promise if you stay, you’ll get a story so big you’ll hit every bestseller list that exists.”

  His left eyebrow twitched. “Oh?”

  “You ever wonder why Deacon Fry’s so het up about doing the Decoration so quick after Jack’s funeral?”

  “Not especially.”

  “What do you know about ghosts, Mr. West?”

  Peter rose and walked toward the cabin door.

  “Where you goin'?”

  He paused on the threshold and glanced back at her. “I have a feeling the story you’re about to tell me would be best heard with some more whiskey in my belly.”

  She didn’t comment on his use of the word “more.” She just smiled and said, “Now you’re talking.”

  38

  Black

  Cotton

  Get her back. She’s coming home. My Rose. Rosebud. No thorns, my Rose. It’ll be easy. Jack promised. Was it Jack? Doesn’t matter. He said she’d come back. Easy as pie. Just a small thing—nothing, really. He’s old, too. Not far from the grave hisself. Just speeding nature along. Sometimes bad things make it easier for good things to happen. Daddy always said, “All’s well that ends well.”

  Jack wouldn’t ask me to do something too wrong. Jack’s a good boy. That’s not Jack. He’s a good boy. Loved watching him throw that pigskin. Wish he were my own boy. ’Stead I got stuck with three needy things. Rose was needy too. Them tears would dry up right quick after a reminder of who was boss. Yessir.

  Gate’s open. Too late for anyone to hear anyway. He’ll be sleeping. Go fast in his sleep, like a dream and wake up with God. He’ll like that. Just ’cause God forsaked me and my Rose don’t mean he don’t deserve to have that for hisself.

  Back door’s unlocked. That’s what he loves about Moon Hollow. People trust each other.

  Inside, the house is dark but there’s enough light to get the job done.

  Soon, Rose. Soon.

  There’s the bedroom. Door’s already cracked, like a welcome. Won’t be long now. Then everything will be okay.

  Just don’t think while you’re doing it. Just don’t think—

  The shovel makes a funny sound.

  Eyes fly open. The blood comes fast and spreads across white sheets.

  He raises it again and again. The shovel makes such wet music.

  That’ll stain.

  Someone’s hollerin’. “Shhh. Quiet now. It’s almost over. Shh.” The lips scream under his palm.

  Hush, little baby, don’t say a word, Papa’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.

  Press harder against the mouth and nose. Something snaps under the weight—cartilage.

  And if that looking glass gets broke, Papa’s gonna buy you a —

  Legs and arms stiffen, hard as boards. Torso jackknifes up. The eyes open wide enough to see eternity. A gasp, a rattle.

  Surrender.

  Nothing. No thoughts. No sounds except the drip, drip, drip of blood and Lord knows what else on the floorboards. His own breath whistles between the fingers he clasps over his mouth.

  The haze clears long enough to see his handiwork.

  He falls to his knees in the puddle of blood. “What have I done?” His hands tremble against the cooling skin of the victim.

  Rose. Rose. Rose.

  The smell of cigarette smoke overpowers the stench of blood and other body fluids—both the victim’s and his own. He breathes in the scent like a drowning man sucks in oxygen. “Marlboro take me away.” Did he say that out loud?

  “Relax, friend.”

  The new voice, familiar but not comforting, whispers in his ear. He turns his head but no one is there.

  “There’s still chores to be done. Then you’ll see Rose. Won’t that be nice?”

  He swallows hard and pulls the pack of smokes from his pocket. Not the generic shit, but Marlboros—the king of tobacco. His new friend gave him a whole carton and now he needs a coffin nail more than he needs the blood in his veins. His fingers slip off the lighter’s metal wheel three times. He wipes his shaking hand on his pants. This time the flame catches and he raises it to his face. Across the bed, a bank of windows reflects the red light on his face as he lights the cigarette. The image reminds him of something out of a horror flick.

  He sucks the sweet poison into his lungs. On the exhale, a line from some psalm or other flashes like neon through his dark mind.

  I am become a stranger unto my brethren.

  39

  Fly Away, Pretty Bird

  Ruby

  That morning, the air smelled different, sweeter.

  She chuckled at her whimsical thoughts and picked up her pace. The weathered leather bag in her hand held some of her clothes and a few treasures she couldn't leave behind. She’d considered bringing a bigger bag, more clothes, but she was hoping that it might take Daddy a while to figure out where she’d gone. An empty closet would tip him off too soon. Besides, she liked the idea of traveling with only a couple of changes of clothes because it meant she’d have to buy new ones. Ones made from slinky fabrics in bright colors. Clingy things that gave her curves. The kind of clothes Daddy would hate.

  The bag was one she’d found in the attic during her search for Mama’s things, and inside she’d found a bus ticket stub from Nashville to the depot in Big Stone Gap, Virginia. She’d taken the stub and the bag as tokens to remind herself to do things different than Mama had. She wouldn’t be calling Granny Maypearl in a few weeks for bus fare back. She’d get a job at a bookstore and sign up for college courses. She wasn’t leaving to become a star. She was leaving to simply become.

  Daddy had stayed out all night again so her escape from the house was simple. Granny arrived early so someone
would be there when the girls woke up. She hadn’t said much to Ruby, but the hug they shared before she left had been fierce.

  She hadn’t dared check in on the girls. Couldn’t risk losing her nerve.

  Once she stepped off her front porch, she’d lifted her arms out like wings and spun around. She giggled and placed a hand over her stomach, which swirled like the inside of a snow globe.

  Today, I fly.

  At the end of the drive, she stopped and looked around. She’d been up and down that old gravel path so many times it had become almost invisible. But now she took a moment to look at the chipped red mailbox with drooping daffodils at the base. She set down her bag and knelt to pluck a few of the weeds out, careful to bring the roots up with them. She tossed them aside, feeling better until she realized no one would be around to make sure they didn’t come back.

  Just as sadness got its first hook into her, a high-pitched cry ran down the road and grabbed her by the ear.

  The bear cub.

  She looked left, toward the road she’d need to take to reach Peter and freedom. She looked to the right, toward Junior Jessup’s place with its cages and snarling dogs. The old Ruby, the one who shoved her anger down and tiptoed so as not to wake the beast from his hung-over stupor, the her that washed behind her sisters’ ears because there weren’t any parents to do it, that Ruby would have turned right and tried to free that poor cub. Once she freed the cub, she’d get caught by Junior, who’d take her to her daddy for a whoopin’. Old Ruby would miss her chance of escape with Peter West because she’d be too busy spitting blood in the bathroom sink.

  But she was New Ruby now. The kind of girl—no, woman—who was in charge of her own destiny. New Ruby didn’t know the weight of duty shackling her feet to the dirt. New Ruby would wear high heels and elegant dresses. She’d read new hardcover books instead of second-hand paperbacks. She’d never have dirt under her fingernails or know the taste of her own blood. Never again.