by Lisa Stowe
Chapter 11
The phone rang again, and Cody threw the blankets back in the pearl light of morning. It didn’t matter if the call was May or her prankster of the night before. Either way she wasn’t going to give them what they wanted. A night disrupted by whispered dreams made her yank up the handset and wait in defiant silence.
“Hey!” came Rachel’s cheery voice. “You just do heavy breathing in the morning?”
The pounding where her heart normally beat eased, the weight lifted and her breath came easier. “Sorry. Guess I’m still half asleep.”
“Girl, it’s nine. Time to rise and shine. Grab some clothes and breakfast and meet me outside in half an hour. Granny’s having a clear day.”
“Pardon?" Cody tossed blankets and stood, trying to get her brain to wake up.
“Granny. Remember I told you she has dementia? Well, she’s pretty clear today and I thought it might be a good time for the two of you to talk about your grandfather. If you want that is.”
“That would be great,” Cody said, grabbing jeans with one hand.
“Perfect. Bring something to take notes with. She talks a lot and rambles all over. It can be hard to remember everything she says, so it helps to write down the gems. See you soon.”
Normally self-conscious eating in front of people, Cody gave in to the time constraint and opted for the continental breakfast in the motel lobby, hiding behind a newspaper. She had only a few minutes to spare before Rachel was due. She stared at her plate with half a croissant still sitting there, hearing her mother’s voice. You could never leave food on your plate, no matter how full you were. The plate had to be emptied. Food could not be wasted.
Cody looked out the front windows but there was no sign of Rachel yet. Instead, she saw her own reflection, and in that, she saw May. There were so many tiny irritations connected to her mother overflowing her blue chair, rocking minutes and years away, her demands and commands keeping cadence. Little things in themselves, in some ways almost petty, but adding up to a lifetime of bites out of Cody’s psyche, until she was left with no idea who she was, only a map of who she was expected to be.
“I’m not my mother,” Cody whispered to herself. “I’m not my mother." She stood, turned from her reflection, and left food behind, taking only guilt with her to the front door.
The morning air was chilly and damp, but the small window of sky between the mountains was clear, with the watered light of fall. Cody pulled on her fleece, eyes catching on the dark stain on the sleeve. She had to find a Laundromat. Nate’s blood didn’t look like blood anymore, instead like she had dragged her coat through mud. She didn’t want to see the reminder, didn’t want to touch it, yet didn’t want to wash away the last of the man. She chose instead to ignore the morbid spot, tucking her hands in her pockets, and breathed deeply of the crisp air. She watched a battered and rusting yellow Jeep come down the street sounding like it was dying with the summer. She stepped back as it parked with two wheels up on the sidewalk. The side window rolled down and Rachel leaned over the passenger seat.
“Oops,” she said. “Damn sidewalk. You ready?”
Cody pulled open the door, only to be met with a cascade of books and papers. She scrambled to catch the ones escaping, while Rachel shoved more into the backseat, adding to the layered collection already strewn across the cracked vinyl.
“This a car or a mobile library?”
“Granny calls it my purse on wheels,” Rachel said, laughing. “Sorry.”
“No problem.” Cody pulled the passenger door shut behind her, trying to avoid stepping on more papers.
“Hope you didn’t eat a huge breakfast,” Rachel said as she bumped the Jeep back onto the street. “Granny’s been baking like crazy. Of course, you never know if she’s clear on what she’s doing or not. One time she served up sautéed crayons. What a mess.”
“Does she live here in Wallace?” Cody asked.
“No, she’s north in Burke. She’s lived in the same house all her life. Can you imagine that? My great-grandpa built the place and she grew up in it, and then after she married, her and grandpa continued living in it. I think those kinds of stories are what pulled me into history. She says she’s leaving it to me in her will.”
“What will you do with it?”
“Are you kidding? Wait until you see it. Great old place with lots of character. I’ll leave my rental in seconds flat." Rachel was silent a moment, and when she spoke her voice was quieter. “Maybe someday I’ll find the right guy. Keep the tradition going, you know? Kids and all that, more generations, adding to the story. Even though hardly anyone lives out in Burke anymore.”
“Isn’t that where Rivers lives?”
“Yeah. There’s a few diehards that refuse to let go. Burke’s a place you live in only if you have a history there.”
The narrow road twisted back into even narrower canyons, and Rachel provided a mile by mile commentary, pointing out old mine sites. Barren, steep hillsides were covered in nothing but rocky mine tailings and the wooden remains of old cribbing, timber stacked to hold back hillsides. They passed wider spots in the road where tiny towns had once existed. Black Bear and Yellow Dog and Frisco, places with no people, no buildings, only the past and no future.
“Where does the road go?” Cody asked, watching a ribboned streambed that was like a silver net over the land.
“Into Burke, and then about half a mile past to the old power station,” Rachel said. “The substation isn’t used anymore, but there’s an ATV road just past it that hunters use. Granny’s right at the far edge of town so you’ll get the grand tour. Burke’s famous you know. The only town to have a main street so narrow you had to roll up awnings and move cars when the train came through. The tracks and the main street were the same. And you should see Nine Mile Cemetery. It runs up canyon walls so steep people are buried practically standing up.”
“You’re pulling my leg.”
“Hell no.”
When Rachel lapsed back into silence, Cody stared out her window, trying to picture the ghostly remains of life long gone. What had it been like during the days when mines were producing, when people huddled at the bottoms of these canyons hoping for the mother lode? Fall was just beginning, but already the sun didn’t reach over the edge of the ravines. In the middle of winter the people here must have felt like they were living in a land of no light.
After a couple more quiet miles, Cody broke the stillness. “I got a prank phone call last night.”
“Oh yeah? An offer for phone sex?”
“No,” Cody said, blushing. She repeated what the caller had said.
“Girl, you need to call Jess.”
“I don’t want to cause extra work for anyone. I mean, it was just a phone call.” Cody regretted bringing it up.
“This is shittin’ serious. Call her now." Rachel tossed a cell phone into Cody’s lap.
Cody dialed reluctantly and self-consciously, and was relieved to get voice mail. She left a message and shut the phone.
“Happy now?” she asked Rachel.
“Happy.”
There wasn’t much to Burke and the few homes showed their age, disintegrating but refusing to give up, gripping their bit of land between the steep rocky walls and the edge of the narrow street. The places were pieced and repaired, using scavenged bits of lumber and the ubiquitous duct tape and looked like they should have been closed up years ago. Two tiny places had been recently restored, but they were an anomaly. Most of the places didn’t look stable enough to protect those who lived within, let alone provide shelter from the rocks the ravine seemed to be tossing at them. Burke was clearly a dying town, hanging on tenaciously in case better times came along.
Rachel was silent during the few minutes it took to drive the canyon floor. When they reached the end of town, she parked in a small, rocky wide spot at the road edge. She got out of the Jeep, slipping keys into the pocket of tight jeans.
There was no driveway to the old house. I
nstead, Cody saw a long narrow ladder of wooden steps leading up through slanting slabs of weathered rock, ending at a home with a steeply pitched roof, balanced precariously on the side of a canyon wall, like a tiny bird perched on a mountain.
“Defies gravity doesn’t it?” Rachel asked. “I love it when people see it for the first time.”
“How did it get up there?” Cody asked. “I mean, how did they build it?”
“Same way the old timers built most places in Burke and Wallace. Very carefully." Rachel laughed at what was obviously an old joke.
“Your granny can manage the steps?” Cody asked, climbing upward behind Rachel.
“For now,” Rachel responded. “Her age shows up more in the mental problems than in physical difficulties. I hire Sunny to stay with her when I can afford it. I can get Granny out for her appointments, but I hate to think of when the stairs get to be too much. She’ll probably have to live with me or I’ll have to move in with her and she’ll hate that, having a caretaker. But there’s no way in hell I’ll let her go into a nursing home.”
“She’s lucky to have you,” Cody said. “I mean, you take care of her because you want to, not because you have to.”
“She’s my Granny,” Rachel said simply, and then added words so quiet Cody almost missed them. “But it’s damn hard sometimes.”
At the first small landing, Cody stopped to catch her breath and admire the view of high hills reaching up into sky. With a strange sense of vertigo, Cody felt if she reached out her hand she could touch the snowfields breathing cold air down into the canyon.
“Some view, isn’t it?” Rachel asked.
Cody could only nod before turning to follow Rachel the rest of the way.
Rachel pushed open the door, walking in without knocking, and Cody saw Rachel secure in her welcome, at home in a place where she knew she was loved. Following her inside was like entering some foreign land, scents of cinnamon and nutmeg mixing with the resin scent of burning wood in a cast iron wood stove. Doilies and antimacassars covered arms of horsehair chairs and created lacy surfaces for knick knacks and family pictures. Small rooms with large windows pulled Cody forward with the welcoming feel of a home that had known many generations of love. Pots of herbs and mason jars full of water and plant cuttings crowded together on deep windowsills made from roughly milled boards. Braided throw rugs decorated wide plank floors, and Cody felt as if she had stepped back into another century. No wonder Rachel had gone into the field of history. It was a job that must have spoken to her of good memories.
“Granny! We’re here,” Rachel called out. When there was no answer she crossed the creaking floor and poked her head into another doorway. “Granny?”
“There’s my girl,” a quavery voice answered. “Where’s your friend then?”
“Right here. This is Cody Marsh. Cody, my granny, Florence Blaine.”
“It’s nice to meet you Mrs. Blaine,” Cody said politely. Rachel’s grandmother was a tiny woman with carefully curled and set gray hair, wearing an old flowered apron with a waistband that disappeared under large sagging breasts.
“Florence, dear. Or just Granny. That’s what I’m used to answering to. I remember that when I don’t remember much else some days. Do you drink coffee or tea? I’ve just taken cinnamon rolls out and they’ll go down fine with something hot.”
“Tea please,” Cody responded, sitting down gingerly at an old schoolhouse table. She fell back on polite conversation, unsettled by feelings of being welcomed and treated like an old family friend.
“Rachel, put the kettle on, dear,” Florence said, worming her ample bottom into a chair across from Cody. “Now then, I understand you want to hear old stories.”
“Please.”
“Well then, I think you’ve picked a good day for it. I think I’m doing all right. Who are you looking for again?”
“Charles Mogen.”
“Charles,” Florence said, folding her wrinkled hands in her lap. “Did I know a Charles?”
“Alice’s boy, Granny.”
“Alice. Strange, strange woman. She spanked her little boy one afternoon. I think he may have been trying to split kindling. She made him kneel on a piece of that firewood so his knees would hurt as much as his bottom. My parents were horrified. Papa was the sheriff back in those days, and I believe he tried mighty hard to come up with some way to get hold of her.”
“She never lost custody though, did she Granny?” asked Rachel.
“Not that I ever knew. Did you know you’re related to royalty, dear?” Florence asked Cody.
“No,” Cody said, not sure how to respond. “Can’t say as I did.”
“Alice was convinced she was the long lost mother to the king of Sweden,” Florence said, and giggled behind her hand as if she had to hide her mirth. “She got her little boy cuff links with crowns on them one year, so everyone would know he was half royalty.”
“So she didn’t neglect him completely then?” Cody asked, thinking of her grandfather wearing those cufflinks. Had he wished for his mother to give him attention instead? Or had he been glad she was in her own world and leaving him alone?
“I imagine the boy sold those cuff links,” Florence said. “He probably made better use of the money. He was the sole support for his mother. He was a year or two older than me, but I remember him at school. Always by himself working on some project. One time he rewired the whole school sound system. He must have been fourteen or so then. And did you ever hear the story about his car?”
“Great grandpa,” Rachel said softly.
“Car?” asked Cody, taking a pen out of the pocket of her jeans. Part of her wanted to write down what Florence said so nothing would be forgotten but she held the pen tightly, afraid of doing anything that would interrupt the flow of words.
“Well then, here was a boy needing a job, needing a way to support his mother, needing transportation, so he could work. There was this madam named Ethel. You heard of her?”
“Yes,” Cody said. “Some anyway.”
“Believe it or not, everyone liked her, even women in town. You couldn’t not like her. She’d help anyone out." Florence picked up a coaster, set it back down carefully, studied it, and shifted it slightly to the right.
“Ethel, Granny?” Rachel prompted.
“Mama says Ethel has a real soft spot for that boy." Florence shifted the coaster again, and then looked up at Cody with eyes that were unfocused, shadowy, in the past.
Cody started to speak, but Rachel shook her head.
“I was going to school and it was snowing and so cold,” Florence said. “Here was Charles standing on the sidewalk like he didn’t know where to go. Flakes floating all around him, in the same jacket he wore in the summer. No cap, no gloves. And then out comes Ethel, arms full. She hands him this mug that’s steaming. She starts swaddling him, wrapping a scarf around his neck, slipping mittens on. She even had a lunch pail for him. And after he’s all wrapped up, she hugs him, just holds him so close.” Florence paused, gazing over Cody’s shoulder as if the snowy day was clearer than the kitchen.
Cody felt tears pricking, seeing in her mind the small shadowy boy in swirls of falling snow.
“I think to this day,” Florence continued, “what meant most to that boy was her holding him. He stayed there like it was sanctuary.”
“And great-grandpa and the car Granny?” Rachel asked after a moment of silence.
“Well, here was this boy needing a job so’s he can get money to take care of his crazy mother. But he doesn’t have any way of getting around. Papa said one day Ethel had a long talk with him. He was a tall drink of water, Papa. Always wore a fedora, tilted just so. And Mama was this tiny little thing that barely reached his belt buckle. Rachel!” Florence’s voice became fast and vibrant. “Haven’t you told your friend about Papa and Mama?”
“Wesley and Hazel Smithwick,” responded Rachel. “They met when she was seven and he was ten, and she was crying because she’d lost a dime down t
he crack in the old boardwalk on her way to school. He got it out for her and said it was love at ten, and still love at ninety when he died.”
“He used to chase children away from the mill,” Florence said, and ducked her head as if to hide the slightly guilty smile that grew. “Including me. We’d crawl in under the milling area where wheat filtered through the floorboards and sneak cigarettes. Thought we were hiding but of course the smoke came up through the cracks.”
“And the car Granny?” Rachel rested a hand on Florence’s shoulder, gently stroking.
“Well, here was this boy needing a job. And Ethel talks to Papa, the sheriff, and what does Papa do? He takes that boy to a junkyard, and they tow home bits and pieces, and he teaches that boy how to work on cars and they build up one that the boy can drive. Then he teaches the boy how to drive, stands up for him as a sponsor so he can get his license. Months they spent together working on that old car. And all because Ethel put a bug in Papa’s ear. Powerful woman.”
“Did you know anything about Charles’s father?” Cody asked. “I only know he was a railroad man.”
“Lots of those around here. Always transient. No roots sunk into the ground like the miners." Florence reached up and patted Rachel’s hand.
“Charles’s father told him that one day he would explain Charles’s parentage to him,” Cody said. “So my grandfather always wondered where his dad came from, and what his dad’s secret might have been.”
Florence laughed, and the sound mingled with the whistle of the tea kettle boiling. “Catch that kettle, will you Rachel, dear? All I can say about parentage, is look at Wallace and its history. A place full of bordellos? I imagine there are many locals that aren’t related to the parents they think they are.”
Rachel handed Cody an obviously old and delicate saucer with a cup of tea balanced on its spider webbed surface.
“What do you mean?” asked Cody.
“Well dear, many babies were born from the wrong side of the blanket. If that boy had some mystery about his parentage, I’d wager the mother was the mystery, not the father.”
Cody stared at Florence in silence, words swept away by the seeds the old woman had just planted.
“Granny,” Rachel said, sitting back down at the table. “If his mother was the big secret, then how come his father left him with a woman who was not only crazy but also not his biological mother? And why would Alice have kept a boy that wasn’t hers?”
“That’s it dear,” Florence said. “If she had no children of her own, and her husband leaving her, maybe she knew that little one was the only child she’d ever have.”
“No,” Cody said, thinking about her mother. “I bet she kept him so she’d have someone to take care of her.”
“Could be, could be.” Florence stood and moved to the counter, a knee ticking with each step. “How about some warm cinnamon rolls now the tea is ready?”
“You want to split one?” Rachel asked Cody.
“Sure,” Cody responded. “How would I go about finding out who his biological parents were? I wouldn’t even know where to start looking for something like that.”
“With his birth certificate, I imagine,” Florence said, coming back to the table with plates and forks. “But looking back over the years, I bet I can tell you who his mother was.”
“Who?” asked Rachel.
“Why dear, the woman who loved that boy, kept an eye out for him, fed him, and who dressed him up warm when the snow fell.”
