Music to Die For (17 page)

Margaret said nothing, just continued looking at Carrie with those deep, dark eyes.

“You said the gowerow had taken a child. We wanted to find out if it was this child.”

Margaret snorted. “Thet were funnin’ fer the tourists. Pure funnin’. Ye shouldn’a took it serious.” She gazed toward the ceiling.

Carrie went on, speaking gently, a prayer in the back of her thoughts. “This child is a little girl, and her parents are wild with worry. Her mother has done almost nothing but cry since she learned strangers took the child. The father paces the floor, day and night.”

Margaret said nothing for a moment. Then she drained her cup, set it aside, and stood, the rope still in her hand. “Nothin’ to me. Time fer ye to go. Hit’s bin a nice visit.”

Henry voice broke in. “Could you wait? At least let me finish this delicious tea. And tell us about the gowerow. We’ve never heard that story before.”

Margaret hesitated. Then, nodding her head so slightly it could have been a tic, she sat, looked at the ceiling again, and began to hum—a slow, tuneless roll of sound that awakened the chills along Carrie’s backbone.

That confirmed it. The name “Mad Margaret” was accurate. If Henry wanted to stay, well, they’d have to stay, but Carrie would have said, “Let’s get out of here,” had she been given the opportunity. Mad Margaret couldn’t tell them anything about Dulcey’s kidnapping. She was just a crazy old woman. The gowerow comment must have been coincidence.

At least a minute of tuneless humming passed before Margaret began to chant words in the same tone, “Hoohoo, gowerow, don’t scare me, three little young-uns in the apple tree. Hoohoo, gowerow, go away, we’re comin’ down, ’n’ steal no apples today.”

The strange song trailed off, and Margaret was silent again, her eyes closed. She acted like she had forgotten them. Had she fallen asleep?

Carrie looked over at Henry. He was sitting forward in his chair, listening, alert.

He said, his voice low and measured, the rhythm almost a copy of Margaret’s chant. “And who is the gowerow?”

Silence, then the hum began again, though Margaret’s eyes remained closed.

Henry repeated, “Who is the gowerow?”

More of the humming, then, “Big, ugly beast. Said to be mixed razorback hawg ’n’ swamp ’gator. Thet’s a dragon-like thing. Eats kids, ’specially bad-uns. Grown folks too.” Margaret opened her eyes. “See,” she snapped, “foolishness. Who’d take thet fer true? Jest foolin’ tourists.”

She rang the bell.

The clang made Carrie jerk with shock, and she stood, eager to leave. Then something stopped her. She turned to Margaret and, not really thinking about her words, said, “So you know nothing about the kidnapping of Tracy Teal’s little girl?”

Margaret’s eyes widened in a paralyzing stare. She whirled at Carrie, grabbing her by the arm and shaking her as if she were a child being punished.

“Tracy? Thet young-un is Tracy’s?”

Carrie froze, unable to move. “Yes, y-yes. I...”

“Sit! Ye
sit!
I’ll do the talkin’. Keep still, both o’ ye. Quick now, woman,
sit!”

Margaret’s grip tightened on Carrie’s arm, and she shoved her down in the chair. Henry, who had started to get up, sat too, just as the back door opened and a stranger—a younger version of Micah—strode into the room.

This time the gun was an automatic pistol.

Carrie stared at it, held, oh-so-casually, in the man’s right hand, simple dark barrel pointing at the floor.

An image she’d never forget floated inside her head. She saw Farel Teal in candlelight, stains that looked black marking his chest, draining down the side of his shirt, pooling on the floor. A knife wound.

The Culpepers liked carrying guns. Did they carry knives too?

Margaret ignored the gun and bobbed her head, welcoming her son.

“There ye be, Zeph. These here folks aire Carrie and Herman Culpeper, from Tulsey, Oklahoma, third cuzins of Robert E. Knowed ye’d want to say ‘howdy’ to some o’ yer pap’s kin, come to call.

“Carrie and Herman, this here’s my youngest son, name of Zephaniah Lee Culpeper. Call him Zeph.”

Henry stood, smiled, and held a hand out to the startled Zeph, who suddenly seemed unable to figure out what to do with the gun he was holding. He finally shifted it to his left hand, wiped his right hand on his jeans as if he’d been touching something dirty, and shook hands with Henry. Then he nodded toward Carrie, who smiled and nodded in return but said nothing.

Margaret laughed, and, looking at Carrie and

Henry, she now pointed toward the gun and said, “Sometimes, as ye kin see, we use the bell to signal trouble. Zeph wouldn’a kenned what I wanted, so he come prepared. These days ye need be wary out here in the forest. Lots o’ strangers up to no good—thet right, Zeph?”

Again he nodded, looking at his mother rather than at Carrie or Henry. He still hadn’t said anything.

“Guess ye’ll be off to work then? I wanted ye to make the acquaintance o’ these folks a’fore leavin’, thet’s all. Micah met ’em when they come. Guess Hab’s still away? Well—mebbe they’ll meet ’nother time.”

Zephaniah Culpeper nodded at Carrie and Henry once more and finally spoke. “Pleased to meet you now. Uh, Ma, want anything else before I go?”

“No, son, things is fine, ‘cept mebbe ye could check in town ’n’ see when my radio’ll be fixed. I shore do miss hit, been gone a long time. Oh... and when did ye say Hab’s expected?”

“Sometime tonight. He was planning to get groceries and some fried chicken on the way through town for him and Micah and for...”—he stopped just a second too long before going on, and Carrie wondered about the pause—“...and for you too, if you want.”

“No, thankee, son, I got plenty, but I hope Hab remembers to get more milk fer the big house. Ah, well, now, ye run along, don’t want t’ make ye late.”

Zephaniah Culpeper bounced his head toward his mother’s guests one last time, said, “I’ll check on your radio, Ma,” and disappeared through the back door.

“He drives a bus fer the shows,” Margaret told them. “Brings folks up from the Folk Center parkin’ lot and takes ’em back down after the shows finish.” Then she was silent, her head turned slightly toward the window. Everything in her manner suggested that she was waiting for something to happen.

Carrie still didn’t speak. She hadn’t a clue to what was coming next and hoped Margaret would be the one to open the conversation. Henry remained quiet too. All that could be heard in the room were soft hisses and cracks from the fireplace and an occasional swish of indrawn breath. Once, Carrie heard her own sigh.

Then, at last, there was the noise of a truck engine starting and the fading sound of a motor as it left the clearing. Silence returned, and Carrie thought, what now?

Finally, Margaret Culpeper began to speak, quietly and very slowly, almost in a sing-song. Her eyes were turned toward the ceiling as if she saw someone or something there.

“I got four sons. All near by. Micah’s over in the big house, as ye seen. His wife Lee Ellen’s there too, though she’s away now, helpin’ a sister who’s doin’ poorly. Since Micah ’n’ Lee Ellen’s chillern is growed long ago ’n’ all live away, they tuk in Zeph when his wife Mary left him.

“Then they’s the twins, Habbakuk ’n’ Nahum. Both lives nearby, Nahum in a house jes over the hill, ’n’ Hab ’n’ his fam’ly not a mile distant t’ other way.”

Margaret paused and as Carrie watched, something sad and secret flowed over the old woman. It deepened the creases around her eyes and softened the look of her entire body. Even more quietly than before, she went on.

“I once had a daughter, name of Elizabeth. She come when I were over forty, not a good time fer me to be havin’ a baby. She struggled to live fer a long piece, then she were sometimes sickly, growin’ up. I tuk good care of her, even if Robert E. ’n’ the boys did think she were a bother. Oh, they niver said hit, but, y’see, all Culpepers mus’ work. Culpepers don’t approve of folks thet need to be cared fer—not even thur own kin.

“Elizabeth weren’t ’special purty ’n’ niver had purties to fix up in, but she done good at school. She were good at poetry ’n’ thinkin’ up music. Oh, my, she loved music—she had the purty things in her head. She made music all the time.”

Margaret looked at Henry. “I’ll play her last tune fer ye now. Bring me thet dulcimer and the pick too, young man—hit’s the little bitty triangle piece on the table.”

Henry jumped, and Carrie knew why. Margaret’s hypnotic voice had been weaving a spell, and the sudden break sliced into that spell, scattering the magic. After a minute he got up and, without saying anything, put the dulcimer in Margaret’s hands before easing back into his chair.

She shut her eyes, strummed across the strings, and tightened two of them, picking softly while turning the screws. Then, after another silence, she began to play.

It was as if the melody were being called from a dream by someone awakened after a long sleep. It hesitated, then swelled quietly, gently, filling all the air and space in the room, filling Carrie’s heart, and it was the music that Carrie had expected. It was Chase and Tracy’s theme song, “Lying to Strangers.”

Henry, however, wasn’t prepared. She heard the not-quite soundless hiss of his breath as he recognized the tune.

After a bit, Margaret began to speak, her words keeping time to the music:

“In woodland flower, in bird and tree, there’s love and beauty all kin see. But in her heart a love is hid that she kin see—and only she.

“Fer love come a stranger, ’n’ she loved a stranger...”

Margaret stopped. Her eyes were closed, but tears seeped under the lids, draining down her cheeks, dripping into darker dots on her dark dress.

Carrie whispered, “Beautiful,” but the word caught in her throat and she wasn’t sure Margaret had heard.

Now the dulcimer lay silent in Margaret’s lap as she continued with her story.

“Elizabeth niver had many friends. She daren’t to bring young-uns home, see, ’n’ town folks didn’t want a Culpeper playin’ with thur chillern. She weren’t asked to parties nur other affairs the young folks had. So she found her friends in the woods. I seen deer walk right up to her, rabbits sit on her lap. She got to spendin’ all her time in the woods after school, ’n’ when she were growed ’n’ had nowheres to go, she had her music and her times in the woods.”

Margaret raised her arm and waved it in a wide, circular sweep. “It were out there she met the stranger.”

Then she opened her eyes, still full of tears, and looked, first at Carrie, then Henry, as if she were pleading with them to understand something.

“I didn’t ken fer a long time, but then she come to me to say she were goin’ to have the stranger’s chile. I couldn’t think whut to do...it were a turrible time. Ye see, Robert E. had strong notions ’bout that sort o’ thing. We all did.

“Elizabeth ’n’ I kep’ the secret as long as we could, but come time we couldn’t hide whut happened anymore—the chile inside her were growin’ too big. Fer once I defied Robert E., stood my ground ’n’ wouldn’t put her out as he said should be done. So, Robert E., he went to stay with Micah, his wife Lee Ellen, ’n’ the boys in the big house. Elizabeth and I stayed here. None of ’em had anythin’ to do with us, nary Robert E. nur the boys. Thet’s why Elizabeth ’n’ I were alone here when her time come. T’were hard, hard...”

Margaret was staring into the air, into a past she alone could see, and her face showed the grief she found there.

“A time before I’d learned the father. He were yearnin’ t’ see Elizabeth, ’n’ he come to us in the woods one day. But, though he said he loved her, he weren’t inclined toward marriage. Might o’ even had a wife somewheres, I don’t know. Elizabeth thought if I tol’ the men to make him wed her, they jes might rather kill him, ’n’ she coulda bin right ’bout thet.”

Margaret paused, still staring into space, ignoring the tears flowing down the creases in her cheeks.

“My Elizabeth died a few days after her baby come... a girl... born right there.” She pointed toward the curtained bed.

“A week after Elizabeth passed, the baby’s daddy claimed his chile ’n’ tuk her away—though I’d-a kep her.

“The baby goin’ wuz fine with Robert E. and my boys. They didn’t want no extra girl chile, though,” she repeated softly, “I’d-a kep her. The men, they niver asked whut had happened to the baby, nur who had her, ’n’ they didn’t know I’d seen the daddy.

“The daddy’s sister ’n’ her man raised Elizabeth’s chile as thur own ’n’ the daddy disappeared, who knows where. Hit were said he went to Californee, meanin’ ta get a job ’n’ send fur his chile. I niver heer’d of him agin—then ’til now. So, my Elizabeth’s baby were raised by her daddy’s kin ’n’ grew up as theirs. I’m most certain she don’t know her real mama, nur thet she’s a Culpeper—then ’til now.”

Carrie, sure of the answer before she asked the question, said, “Who is Elizabeth’s child? Who adopted her?”

“Teals. My granddaughter is called Tracy Teal. But her real mama, Elizabeth Margaret Culpeper, is buried on the hillside, yonder.”

For a few moments the silence in the room seemed to be crying in Carrie’s ears. She didn’t dare look at Henry. He must be thinking of his own daughter, Susan, whose beginning had not been so very different from Tracy’s. But Susan’s daddy had returned. Henry had come back to his child.

Now Carrie realized she was crying and dug in her pocket for a tissue.

When she was able to speak, she asked, “Who knows this?”

“Wal, some few. I don’t think no one tol’ Tracy, nur would I want ’em to. We ain’t... well, she’s a fine, famous lady now... I heerd her sing once on my radio... a voice like Elizabeth’s. No, they’s too much time ’n’ life ’tween us now.”

Carrie leaned forward. “But who else may know? It could be important, Margaret.”

“My own boys ’n’ Micah’s Lee Ellen knows ’bout Elizabeth’s baby bein’ born o’ course, but they’s all close-mouthed. Need to be, ye see. My Elizabeth, she niver wed, so I reckon they niver tole no one ’bout any baby. Not them. Their pa said Elizabeth’s death were a jedgement on her.

“I niver said nothin’ ’bout where the baby went to any of ’em, ’n’ Robert E., he died a short space after. Micah ’n’ Hab’s wed, as I said, but I doubt anyone but Lee Ellen knows the story, ’n’ most Teals has died or moved away from here now.”