In a Dark Season Page 10

  “The Geminids, is it?” Phillip sounded dubious but amused. “Are there supposed to be lots of them?”

  Elizabeth settled herself into a rocking chair moved from the front porch to the deck below for the occasion. She held the phone to her ear as she scanned the sky to the north. “Well, ten to fifteen an hour is the estimate—so that works out to one every four to six minutes—not exactly a light show but—Oh! There went one!”

  A pinpoint of light flared in the soft blackness of the sky’s depth, tracing a brief glowing path that disappeared before her sentence was completed. At the top of the heavens’ vault, in the deepest darkness, the sky was crowded with a thickly glittering maze of stars, while the eastern horizon was a hazy purple, tinged by a faint glimmering from the lights of Ransom and the surrounding communities.

  Wish on a falling star. I wish that Phillip were here instead of in Weaverville. I wish that that Nola would get well. I wish…

  “I wish I could see them,” Phillip’s rueful tone almost sounded sincere, “but with so many security lights in Weaverville, there’s no chance. I’ll just have to stay here in my warm house and let you describe it to me.”

  “You seem to be bearing up pretty well under the disappointment.” Elizabeth switched the phone to her left ear and shoved her right hand, icy in spite of the heavy glove, into her pocket. “I don’t know how long I’ll be out here—I always hope that it’ll be a real meteor shower—like that song about stars falling on Alabama—with the sky just full of—I think there went another one just at the edge of my vision!”

  “How was Miss Birdie? You did say you were going to visit her today, didn’t you?”

  “Birdie’s great—she asked after you.” How is that feller of yours? Miss Birdie had asked, fixing Elizabeth with a shrewd gaze. Now I don’t mean to be nosy, Lizzie Beth, but seems to me, like my mamaw used to say, you could go farther and fare worse. He’s a fine man and a body kin see he thinks the world of you. “Maybe you could come with me when I take her some Christmas goodies next week. What did Mackenzie want to see you about—if it’s not privileged information.”

  “Well—it’s not common knowledge yet, but I trust you not to let this go any farther. You ever noticed that old school bus, parked in the field below the bridge?”

  Elizabeth listened with growing uneasiness as Phillip described the anonymous letter and the alleged rape in the old bus.

  “Phillip, this is too weird. Birdie was just telling me this story about her son. It was back—I can’t remember exactly when she said; I think it was in the early nineties—Cletus was more or less abducted by some young men.”

  “That poor young un,” Miss Birdie had said. “I remember it jest as plain. ‘They was bad boys, Mommy,’ says he. I finally got it out of him that he’d been over yon side of Pinnacle, sleepin’ in an old barn he used sometimes. Howsomever, what he told me was that these fellers come hoo-rahin’ around and when they found him there, they made him drink with them. Now Cletus hadn’t never had no whisky and he said he got sick and started to vomick and then they said they’d bring him home.”

  Miss Birdie’s eyes had grown misty and her voice wavered as she said, “You know what Cletus was—one of the Lord’s innocent lambs. Well, he got in the truck with those fellers and he said when they got to the bridge he told ’em to turn up thisaway but they didn’t pay him no mind. He said they was laughin’ and the truck was halfway acrost the bridge and he started to vomick again. They made him get out, right there on the bridge, and he said he got all swimmie-headed and fell down.”

  Elizabeth shivered in spite of the sleeping bag wrapped around her. “Poor Birdie, she was almost in tears telling me about this. Evidently between the whisky and his phobia about bridges, Cletus passed out. But this is the weird part. He told her that when he woke up, he was in this old school bus—on a mattress with a girl asleep beside him and the ‘bad boys’ were all gone. He told Birdie that the girl wouldn’t wake up and that she didn’t have any clothes on and he got real scared. He broke a window to get out and started running.”

  The slow-moving lights of a distant, silent airplane held Elizabeth’s attention briefly. One more, when I see one more, then I’m going in and get warm.

  Phillip, suddenly sounding very far away, broke into her concentration. “Did Miss Birdie do anything to check on this story—did she believe her son?”

  “She believed him—but she figured it was just some drunken kids trying to have fun by seeing what Cletus’s reaction would be to a naked girl. They was more than one whore woman hangin round that old stand and they was as bad to drink as the men. I don’t doubt but she was in on the joke. My sweet boy had to put up with a world of hatefulness like that.

  “Maybe that was all it was—or maybe it’s connected to this story Mac told me.” Phillip’s voice was thoughtful. “But unless the one who wrote that letter contacts him again, we’ll never know.”

  “It makes me sad to think of how mean some people can be—especially to harmless creatures like Cletus.” Elizabeth silently noted the passage of another meteor. She pushed herself out of the chair and headed for the steps. Her knees felt stiff and arthritic…and old. “I’m going in the house now. I’ve enjoyed as much as I can stand of the Geminids.”

  The phone still to her ear, she opened the front door, savoring the instant, enveloping warmth. Molly looked up briefly from her spot on the sofa in front of the fire, but Ursa, stretched out on the kitchen floor, didn’t move. A rapid tattoo announced that James was on the hearthrug.

  A welcoming, pleasant room but something was missing. Almost without thinking, she found herself saying, “I wish you were here, Phillip.”

  There was the sound of throat-clearing and he said, “There was another thing—Mac wants me to come work for him. If I gave up the teaching and went full-time with the sheriff’s department, I’d probably have to move out to Marshall County…”

  An unspoken challenge hung in the air. When she had rejected his proposal back in the summer, Phillip had said, quietly and without rancor, “I want to marry you, Elizabeth. I’d like that kind of full-time relationship and commitment. But if you’re not interested, so be it. I won’t keep asking but I won’t change my mind; if you change yours, let me know.” And there the matter had rested, much to Elizabeth’s relief.

  The waiting silence grew louder and a bevy of conflicting thoughts raced though her head. Say something…what?

  “You could move in, Phillip. We could turn one of the guest rooms into an office for you and—”

  “And I could keep my sleeping bag rolled up behind your couch?” The words had a bitter edge. “No thanks, I’ll find a place of my own if I accept Mac’s offer. That way I don’t feel like—Oh hell, Elizabeth, forget I mentioned it.”

  There was real irritation in his voice. “I’ll say goodnight now—I’ve got papers to grade and I need to be up early in the morning.”

  “Phillip—” A sudden sick feeling swept over her. Why is marriage so important to him? And why can’t I just go along with it?

  “Listen…” She had begun the sentence with no idea of what she was going to say, only hoping desperately to buy a little time. “Please, can we talk about this when you’re out here this weekend?”

  A chill silence was the only answer.

  “Phillip, you are planning on coming out, aren’t you?” Oh god, why does it have to be like this? Why can’t—

  At last the reply came. “Yeah…I guess so. But we don’t need to talk about anything. You know what I want—and I know how you feel.”

  He hung up just a little too quickly and Elizabeth sank down on the sofa in front of the fire. This is ridiculous. It’s supposed to be the other way around—but I’m the one who doesn’t want to commit.

  She reached out to stroke Molly’s sleek coat, but the red hound slid from beneath her hand and off the sofa with a languorous grace, stretched, and retreated to the bedroom. Elizabeth picked up a throw pillow, still warm from the dog’
s body, and clutched it to her chest. What’s wrong with me? Behind the glass door of the fireplace, the silent flames danced.

  Chapter 11

  Big Lavinia

  Thursday, December 14

  Aunt E, Manda and I are going into the ’ville to do the deliveries and some Christmas shopping. You still want me to get you a tree? I’m gonna be out near the farmers’ market.”

  Elizabeth looked up from the purloined laptop, blinking as she returned to the here and now. She had been lost, fathoms deep, years long gone, in Nola Barrett’s tale of the old stand on the Drovers’ Road and the tangled lives of those who had passed through its doors.

  “Tree?”

  “Christmas tree. Big, green, pointy on top, lights, doodads, and the popcorn-and-cranberry chain that takes all afternoon to string. Didn’t you say Rosemary and Laur would be here this weekend and we’d decorate the tree Sunday afternoon?”

  Her nephew loomed over her, regarding her with an amused look. “Or were you just going to skip the whole Christmas thing this year?”

  “No, of course not. I was just…” I sat down with my second cup of coffee to take a quick look at this stuff of Nola’s, and my god, it’s a quarter of ten. A feeling of guilt assailed her.

  “Oh, Ben, I meant to go down to the greenhouses first thing this morning and pack the lettuce for delivery, but I got sidetracked. Let me get my—”

  “No worries, Aunt E, Amanda did it while I was taking care of the watering. I seeded some more of the arugula and the red oak leaf too.” His smile was complacent. “It’s worked out really well, hasn’t it—having Amanda helping take up the slack while Julio and Homero are back in Chiapas for the winter?”

  He looks like a big sleek happy tomcat, Elizabeth thought, watching as her nephew sank into the chair at the end of the dining table. He stretched in the morning sun streaming through the dining room windows, and his long hair pulled back in the usual ponytail glinted, more gold than red, in the strong winter light.

  “You’re right; she’s been a huge help. I wish we could pay her more, but—”

  “It’s not a problem, Aunt E, Manda’s fine with things the way they are.” A casual wave of his hand dismissed crass money matters.

  “I’m glad she’ll be here for Christmas, but what about her folks? Don’t they want her home?”

  “Manda says her folks always like to go somewhere for the holidays. This year it’s Vail so they can ski. They have a house there along with the beach place at Casey Key.”

  “My god, two vacation homes? They must have more money than God.”

  “Yeah, pretty much. Her father has a bunch of different businesses.” Ben had yawned, and added, “They invited Amanda and me to come with them to Colorado but we told them we had work to do here. Besides, she’s not into spending a lot of time with her folks.”

  I wonder what the story is with Amanda and her family. She’s hardly mentioned them or her life in Tampa or her career in modeling. Her interests seem to be totally here—Ben even said she’s been spending time at the library, reading up on the history of the area.

  Pulling on her heavy jacket, Elizabeth dug in its pockets in search of her gloves. I wish I’d known—I would have taken Amanda to meet Nola, the old Nola. She could have told Amanda so much about the county. But it’s too late now, unless there’s something like a miracle. The three dogs milled about her feet, eager to be out and doing. As she pulled open the front door, they shot onto the porch, barking with joy, each breath accompanied by a puff of white.

  “You dogs, stay,” she told them. “I’m going to the store.” And I’m going to see Nola.

  The Christmas decorations at the Layton Facility were drooping and worn, a little limper and a little sadder than they had been the week before. The sparsely decorated tree in the lobby sat at a tilt, its tinsel garland trailing on the floor. And the same frail woman in the wheelchair sat by it. Her robe was blue today but her hair was still in curlers and she still cuddled the worn baby doll.

  Down the corridor, past room after room where occupants sat gazing dully at flickering televisions or lay open-mouthed staring at the ceiling. Please God, don’t let me end up like that—a sudden heart attack or something—oh, please—I’ll take dying sooner rather than living on like this.

  And here it was, number 167 with the name cards on the door for Nola Barrett and Ronda Mills. Elizabeth took a deep breath and stepped into the room. “Hey, Nola, it’s Elizabeth.”

  The bed nearest the door was empty—not merely empty, but stripped and draped with a single sheet that revealed the rigid and uncompromising angles of the foam mattress. The small clutter of personal items that had covered Ronda Mills’s bedside table had been removed.

  In the other bed, Nola Barrett lay curled on her side. Her eyes were squeezed shut but her lips were moving. Elizabeth moved closer, hoping for a miracle.

  “Nola, it’s me. Are you doing better?” She laid a tentative hand on her friend’s shoulder.

  The sick woman’s eyes opened slowly. Elizabeth smiled and spoke in what she hoped was a normal and optimistic tone. “How do you feel today, Nola?”

  Nola’s head, its short-cropped black-dyed hair now showing a rising tide of white at the roots, rolled to and fro in hopeless negation. The tip of her tongue appeared and moistened her dry lips. Glittering eyes were fixed on Elizabeth’s face, and a garble of nonsense syllables poured from the twisted mouth. The woman in the bed struggled, growing more and more agitated, but intelligible phrases would not form. Then, just as she had done on Elizabeth’s previous visit, Nola Barrett spoke clearly and precisely—

  “Like one that on a lonesome road

  Doth walk in fear and dread,

  And having once turned round, walks on,

  And turns no more his head;

  Because he knows a frightful fiend

  Doth close behind him tread.”

  As Nola Barrett completed the verse, Elizabeth listened with a dawning comprehension. She’s using lines from poems she’s memorized to communicate! She can’t put together new sentences but she can repeat ready-made ones. The woman in the bed waited, gray eyes intent on Elizabeth’s face, willing Elizabeth to understand.

  “Nola, you’re in there, aren’t you?” Elizabeth sat down on the bedside chair and pulled it nearer to the bed. She took Nola’s hand and leaned closer. “I wonder—”

  One of the young aides breezed into the room, bearing a cup of some clear red liquid with a bent straw in it.

  “Hey there, Ronda honey; here’s you some juice. You got some more company today, I see.” The plump young woman thrust the cup onto the tray table and pushed it to the bedside.

  “Her name’s not Ronda.” Elizabeth tried to hide her indignation. I know how many people this poor girl probably brings juice to but, dammit, at this point her name is about all Nola has left. “Ronda Mills is gone. This is Nola Barrett.”

  But the wide-hipped aide was out the door without looking back and on her way to the next room, pushing her jingling cart down the hall. Elizabeth squeezed her friend’s hand. “I hope the nurses with the medications are better at knowing who’s who. What happened to your roommate, anyway?”

  Nola’s mouth worked again and this time the words seem to come more readily.

  “No motion has she now, no force;

  She neither hears nor sees;

  Rolled round in earth’s diurnal course,

  With rocks, and stones, and trees.”

  “That’s Wordsworth—but I can’t remember the name of the poem.”

  There was authority in the husky voice that came from the doorway. Elizabeth swung around to see an enormously fat woman, well past middle age, dressed in flowing black trousers topped by a long tunic of the same material. A brilliant red and green silk scarf, secured by a flashing diamond brooch at the left shoulder, hung in artful folds around an almost nonexistent neck. The newcomer’s massive legs ended in improbably tiny feet jammed into low-heeled pumps of gold and silve
r leather that matched the huge shoulder bag she carried.

  She made her way toward the bedside, puffing slightly with each step. Nola had closed her eyes—whether in response to the visitor’s approach or out of weariness, Elizabeth couldn’t decide.

  After a swift glance that took in not only the invalid but everything in the little room, the woman cocked her head to one side, fixing Elizabeth with her penetrating gaze.

  “Has Nola said anything yet that wasn’t poetry—anything that makes any sense?”

  “No, not really. But she—”

  “I’m Lavinia Holcombe. Nola and I are friends from way back.” The new arrival’s eyes were back on the woman in the bed, taking in every detail of her condition.

  Elizabeth stood. “Please, would you like to sit here?”

  “Heavens no, you stay put.” With an almost inaudible grunt of relief, Lavinia Holcombe plopped down on the edge of the empty bed. “My lord, what have they done to her hair?” Pale blue eyes, almost buried in doughy flesh, swept appraisingly over the sick woman. “Look at those roots—snow white, poor thing!”

  She raised a well-manicured hand to fluff her own ash blonde coiffure. “Are you from Nola’s church?”

  “No, I’m just a friend. I live on Ridley Branch—the old Baker place.” Elizabeth glanced at Nola, whose eyes were still tight shut. “My name’s Elizabeth Goodweather.”

  “Goodweather? That’s not a Marshall County name. Is it your married name?”

  “Yes, it is. You’re right; I’m a transplant. My husband and I moved here back in ’84.”

  “Did you?” The pale eyes were assessing her. “And how do you come to know Nola? I don’t remember her mentioning you.”

  I didn’t expect a kind of Spanish Inquisition, Elizabeth retorted mentally but, exercising a little control, she explained sweetly that she and Nola shared an interest in old quilts. “I only met Nola a few months ago.”