“Anna Karenina … Tragic story,” Annie said, and pointed to the book.
“Yes. I keep reading it, hoping she will not do it. But she always does.”
“I’m Annie Taylor.”
“Taylor,” Miss Givens said, and closed her eyes. “Ah, yes. We had a state legislator by that name. He got into a bit of trouble as I recall.”
“My father’s uncle, but please don’t hold it against me.”
After ten years in New York City, Annie had nearly forgotten how people in small towns used last names to connect. And the Taylor name wasn’t associated with good things in Somerville.
Miss Givens smiled. “I don’t make judgments. It does give us perspective to see the whole. Are you here to see me? Or are you interested in talking about the Russians? I would love to have someone with whom I could discuss literature.”
Annie smiled. “I have read The Brothers Karamazov, but that and Anna Karenina are the extent of my knowledge.”
“It’s a lovely start,” she said. “However, I think you are here on another matter?”
“Tom Childress gave me your name,” she said.
Miss Givens smiled. “A good man. Very bright. He was one of our best students.”
“You’re a teacher?”
“I was the Somerville High School librarian. After integration, of course. Before, I was the librarian at the Bonaparte School.”
“Tom says you are the most knowledgeable person about history in the area.”
“Maybe the most knowledgeable still alive,” Miss Givens laughed, a high tinkling sound like delicate crystal clinking together. “There were others, but they’re all in the town cemetery now.”
“I’m interested in learning anything you might know about the old stone house, the one on Gibson’s Creek Road. We had a fire a few weeks back, and it badly damaged an upstairs room. The water used to put out the fire did even more damage. If we know the history, it might help us save it.”
“You’re a May?”
“Yes. My grandmother is Beulah Campbell. She was a May.”
“I know it well. What do you want to know?”
“I’ve heard it might be the first stone house built in Kentucky. If we can prove it with historical documents, a grant is possible,” Annie said. “I was hoping you could give me direction.”
Miss Givens sighed. “Call me Vesta. You know, when someone offers you his or her first name it’s a gift. These days we’re all so informal, we use someone’s first name without allowing them to offer it to us.”
“And you can call me Annie.” She liked this woman even more.
“I’ve always heard it was the first stone house in Kentucky. Oral tradition is not likely to be taken well on a grant application. There are the Draper papers, although I don’t remember seeing much related to a house, unless it was in a deposition, so I don’t think I would spend time there. Let me think,” Vesta said, tapping her finger on the arm of the wheelchair.
Annie tried to envision Vesta behind a reference desk in a library or teaching a class.
“There are diaries of early pioneers. Oh, that’s it,” she looked at Annie, her eyes shining. “Joseph Crouch wrote extensive letters back home to his family in the East. Through those he chronicled the early frontier in this area. That’s where we should start.”
“Where are the letters?” Annie asked.
“The Kentucky History Center, not far from the state capital building in Frankfort. You’ll be looking at copies of course, probably on microfilm.”
Annie scribbled the name down.
“If you come up empty handed, let me know and we’ll try another route,” Vesta said, looking at her over the glasses.
“Thank you,” Annie said, grasping Vesta’s arm. “This helps so much.”
“Come back and let me know how it’s going.”
Annie stood. “You can count on it.”
***
Plunking over the plank bridge crossing Gibson’s Creek, Annie parked her grandfather’s old farm truck under the shade tree next to the old stone house. Every time she saw the house now, Annie was surprised by its condition. It’s like what Vesta thought reading Anna Karenina, she thought. The ending always turns out the same, and the reader always hopes for something different.
In the same way, she almost expected to see the old house as it was before the fire.
When Annie got out of the truck, a cool breeze blew, hinting at cooler weather to come, and a reminder that time to save the house was running short.
While she waited on Jerry Baker to arrive, Annie walked around behind the house and saw where Jake and Joe Gibson had put up a new fence to keep the cows from tromping into the creek from the adjoining pasture. Jake was intent on cleaning up the creek so the water quality would improve.
Sunlight filtered through the leaves on the bank of Gibson’s Creek, and as she stood there enjoying the peaceful moment, Annie remembered when she and Jake were children. They were playing in the creek, catching tadpoles and skipping rocks, when a summer storm blew up. Her mother called from the back door, but they were just about to catch the biggest tadpole they had seen all day. When her mother called again, this time using her whole name, Annie May Taylor, and even Jake’s whole name, Jacob Willis Wilder, Jake grabbed her by the hand and pulled her up the bank. They ran into the yard, laughing, until they reached the threshold of the old stone house. Lightning bolted from the sky and struck a tree on the creek bank, where they had been only seconds before, splitting it in two. Jake’s blue eyes were wide, and he had stopped laughing. Annie had swallowed hard. Her mother was angry.
“Annie May, when I call you to come in, I mean right now!” Dark shadows appeared heavy under her mother’s intense and angry eyes. Her frail hands reached for Annie’s shoulders and shook them before she pulled her into the hallway.
“I’m sorry, Mama. We were just playin’.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Taylor,” Jake added.
It was unlike her mother to be so harsh. Her mother was frightened and now, as an adult looking back, she knew the fear had run much deeper than an eleven-year-old could comprehend.
“You two just sit quiet in the living room until this is over,” she said, a trembling finger suspended in mid-air. Annie and Jake had gone to the living room, meek as lambs, and talked quietly until the storm passed. It was the last summer in the old stone house, the summer before her mother’s diagnosis.
***
The slam of a car door jarred her from the past and she turned to see a shiny white truck. A sixty-something-year-old man with pressed pants and a starched shirt smiled a greeting. Jerry Baker, she assumed, but she had pictured him in blue jeans, cotton work shirt and redwings. Instead, he looked like a banker. She smiled and extended her hand.
“Thanks for coming.”
“Nice to meet you,” Jerry said, in a twang that hinted of a mountain heritage. “Let’s see what you got here,” he said, and looked up at the damaged house. “I’ll just be taking some notes while I look around.” He pulled a clipboard with a legal pad attached out of the cab of his truck.
Jerry stepped into the suffocating stench of smoke and ashes. They walked through the two downstairs rooms original to the house, and then the kitchen and bath, which had been added later. Upstairs, they first looked at the room untouched by the fire and then made their way to the damaged room. Charred ceiling beams went to nearly nothing near the chimney. Annie imagined the flame from the candle in the window touching the curtains and setting them ablaze. Walls were blackened and the wood floor was bowed in places from the water damage.
“Pretty bad, huh?” she said. Jerry nodded and wrote notes on the note pad. When he finished, he looked up and smiled.
“Why don’t we go outside where it smells a little better?”
They were quickly refreshed by the clear blue skies and crisp air. Jerry lowered the tailgate on his truck and laid his clipboard on the makeshift desk.
“We’ll need to remove sheetrock and
plaster. The insulation needs to come out to expose the structure and make sure everything is okay underneath. We need access to everything in order to kill the smoky smell. Then we’ll need to check the stones and make sure the fire didn’t loosen the mortar joints,” he said. “I can do the carpentry and stonework. I’ll need to hire out an electrician and a plumber. What about the kitchen and bath? Usually folks want to upgrade at a time like this.”
“Not at this point. We’re trying to keep the bid as low as possible,” she said.
“I like to use materials from the local lumber supply. You might save a bit from the big box companies, but you’ll use it up in running back and forth.”
“We agree with that. I was wondering if you could bid the job in parts with the first one focusing on the roof and windows, whatever we need to do to keep it sound and then outline what we need to make it livable.”
“Sure. We’ll bid what it takes to get it in the dry. The more specialized work like plumbing, electrical can go in phase two. We can add carpentry and all the finish work in the third section. You decide how much you want to do,” he said.
After Jerry gave a promise to mail his bid in a few days, he got in his truck and drove away. She watched him go and then went back inside the house to examine the downstairs kitchen and bath. Annie had not thought of upgrading. Now she saw the Formica countertops were in bad condition. The linoleum on the kitchen and bathroom floors buckled. All the appliances needed to be replaced. Her spirits sank.
Another car door slammed and she went to the front window. A man was standing next to a gray Tahoe and staring up at the house.
“Hello, can I help you?” she said, stepping out of the front door.
The man had a wide mouth and a hawk-like face with the largest teeth she had ever seen.
“Randy Wilson,” he said, extending his hand. “Fine Architectural Salvage. Are you the owner?”
“Annie Taylor,” she said, feeling herself bristle. “My grandmother is the owner.”
“I believe her neighbor, Betty Gibson, called and asked me to come over and take a look at the house and give an estimate of what I could buy from you good folks. Mind?” He pointed toward the door.
Annie nodded and followed him inside, feeling the anger rise up like hot lava. Betty Gibson.
“Ah, real nice mantle. I could place that tomorrow,” Randy said, moving his hand along the wood. “And these poplar floors, look how wide the boards are; you don’t get that these days,” he said, and squatted down to examine the wood. A childish urge to kick the seat of his khaki trousers washed over her.
“I’ll wait outside for you,” she said, and left before she acted on the desire.
Next to her grandfather’s old truck, she rubbed her temples, closed her eyes, and leaned against the metal for support. The house meant nothing to him. It was all just wood, fine carpentry, and dollar signs.
In a few minutes Randy Wilson came out the front door grinning like an old rat in a corncrib.
“Real nice. I’ll write up the estimate. What’s the address?” he said, and pulled out his note pad.
Annie hesitated and then gave him Evelyn’s address. It would only delay things a day or two if she was lucky, but she needed every single minute.
Chapter Four
BEULAH REACHED FOR the cane leaning against the back door. It was a smooth piece of oak with rubber on the bottom and a gently curved top making it easy to hold. It had helped her navigate the uneven ground many a time, but it also made her feel old. She set aside her pride to avoid a fall. Truth was, she needed it, and probably would for another few weeks.
Carefully, she used the stepping-stones to the chicken house and then she took a grass path to the vegetable garden just beyond. Tomatoes were still coming, and she made a point to get every last one until frost. They were smaller this time of year, but they were good and ripe. She dropped seven in the pocket of her apron and then eased down in the metal chair next to the garden and surveyed the kale, turnip and collard greens planted just a few weeks ago.
The September growth and the cool weather greens were the last gasp for the garden until it was put to sleep for winter. Kentucky was a sight to behold in autumn with all the red and yellow maples dotting the hills, hollows, and knobs. Beulah couldn’t help but feel a little wistful for the warm weather and the green and growing plants. She dreaded losing the garden to cold. It was like saying goodbye to an old friend and wondering if it might be for the last time.
The garden was a place of restoration for her. And it must have been for the Lord as well, since he was always going to the garden to pray. As peaceful as it was, she couldn’t seem to shake the unease settling around her, like the cold dread of some unpleasant task.
Her relationship with her granddaughter had been going fine the last few weeks as they were getting along better than ever. But now the old stone house had caused a rift between them. It’s understandable why Annie latched onto the house, Beula mused, as she shifted her hip to a more comfortable spot in the seat. Her grandchild was abandoned by her father when she was only a baby, him coming in and out of her life when it suited his needs. Annie was only twelve when her mother, and Beulah’s only daughter, Jo Anne, died. Just a couple of years ago, there was the loss of Fred who had doted on her and had connected with her in a way Beulah had never been able to understand. This all led up to this past fateful summer when her granddaughter came home after losing her job in New York City where she had lived for ten years. It was no wonder she needed to hold onto something solid that represented happier times.
Beulah thought about her own emotional attachment to the place, it being in her family all the way back to pioneer days when her ancestors had laid the stones. It was where she grew up with her mother, her father, and her older brother, Ephraim. It was on the stone step outside the front door where she hugged her brother and said goodbye when he left for the Army. Little did she know it would be the last time she would see him on this earth. There were happier memories, too, like meeting Fred and his brother when they came around after the war to help Daddy with the tobacco crop.
How else am I to approach the dilemma? She couldn’t use her savings on it when there was no telling what the future held. It had taken Fred and her a lifetime to save money. No, whenever God decided her time on earth was done, her granddaughter would need every penny to keep the farm going if anything was left.
The thump of tires hitting potholes caused her to look up in time to see Fred’s old farm truck spew gravel before sliding to a stop. The door slammed and then there was Annie, barreling toward the house, looking fit to be tied.
“Out here,” Beulah called.
Annie turned to her voice, her thick, dark ponytail flying in the breeze behind her change of direction. She almost heard Fred’s voice saying, “Little thoroughbred filly.” It had been his nickname for their grandchild and it fitted her both in looks and in demeanor. Long legs and fast movements, she was a beauty but awfully high strung, like the racehorses.
“Grandma, do you know what that woman did?” she stopped several feet in front of her with one finger raised in the air.
“What woman?”
“Betty Gibson,” Annie spit the name out like it was tobacco juice.
“Did Mr. Wilson catch you at the house?” she said.
“You knew about it? But you gave me two weeks!”
“You still have the two weeks. Betty suggested he come on over and look at the house so we would at least have an estimate of its value. I thought it was a good idea.”
“He was like an old buzzard, pecking around and drooling over the mantles and the floors. Betty Gibson needs to mind her own business.”
“Now Annie,” Beulah heard the hardness in her voice, but it had gone far enough. “I need facts in order to make this decision, and I can’t go on what we might get from the salvage company. I need to know. Betty Gibson was being nothing but neighborly. I’ll grant you her neighborliness sometimes goes too far.”
>
Annie’s shoulders slumped and she looked on the verge of tears.
“Grandma, do you really want the house picked apart and torn down? Once it happens, we can never get it back.”
“You know I don’t.”
Annie raised her chin, calm now, the flashing heat of anger over.
“If I find a promising solution before the two weeks, even if it’s not a guarantee, will you consider another option?”
“I’m trying to be reasonable.”
Annie nodded and set her jaw in that determined way Beulah knew well, and started toward the house.
“Would you take these tomatoes for me?” Beulah said. Annie came back and took the tomatoes and the apron as well. Beulah watched her walk away, ponytail swaying, the screen door slamming behind her. If Fred were here now, he would chuckle into his pipe at Annie’s fiery spirit. Beulah and Annie were too much alike, Fred had always said. If that were true, shouldn’t they understand each other?
It wasn’t long before the sound of crunching gravel broke her reverie. Gently, Beulah pushed herself up from the metal chair and waited for the faded pink Cadillac to park.
***
A trip to the Country Diner was their Saturday night tradition for going on fifteen years, starting back when there were six of them instead of four. It was a time of fellowship with Beulah’s across-the-road neighbors and her best friend and next-door neighbor, Evelyn Wilder.
Beulah knew to wait for Joe as he turned around in the gravel drive so they could pull straight out when she got in the car. Joe Gibson was one of those drivers who always backed into parking spaces, so he could be ready to go. He said it was due to his service on the rescue squad years ago. Possibly, she observed, people were either backers or pullers, just like there were savers or spenders.
Joe hopped out and opened the door for Beulah, his wiry frame as agile today as it had been thirty years ago, even though he and Betty were just a decade behind her in age. Being thin has such advantages, Beulah thought. It seemed like everything worked a little better when there wasn’t such weight to drag around. Beulah eased her own size sixteen carefully into the seat, always wary of the twisting to her knee with a sudden move.
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