Old Wounds (26 page)

He had handed it to her and put his hands over hers as she clasped the book.
There’s important stuff in here, Liz. The things that brought us here; lessons we shouldn’t ever forget. Keep it safe.

She opened the little book and flipped through the pages. As far as she could remember, she’d never read this copy—too caught up in life itself to spare time for the somewhat precious observations of a young man who had, when all was said and done, lived quietly and simply for a few years before rejoining the common throng.

But there’s some fine writing here, all the same,
she thought, leafing through the pages.
It taught an appreciation of simplicity…and a love of nature that has stayed with me, even if I don’t live as simply as Thoreau did. Of course,
he
didn’t have children.

She started to shelve the book, then, changing her mind, set it on her bedside table.
I owe old Henry David another look,
she decided.

Elizabeth dusted off the last two books,
Virginia Woolf and Émile Zola—now, there’s an odd couple,
and returned them to the shelves, then tried to decide what to do next. Not enough time to begin a major project, and too early to start supper. She looked speculatively up at the loft bedroom.
Those spy notebooks. She said I could read them. And I’d dearly love to get a glimpse into her mind back then. Children are so strange and wonderful. And Rosie was such an enigma—when she
was
Rosie, not pretending to be Running Deer or whatever the name of her Indian princess alter ego was.

Minutes later, Elizabeth was sitting on one of the low twin beds in the loft bedroom. She plucked a speckled-covered notebook from the pile beside her, opened it at random, and read.
I know that it was a bad thing to do but
I don’t care
.
Mum and Pa have done bad things too.

A
T THE
S
CUTTLE
H
OLE

August 1986

W
ITH CATLIKE TREAD,
upon her foe she steals…dum, dum, dum, dee dum, dee dum, dee dum.

The Pirates of Penzance song was running through her head as Rosemary crept up the path to the scuttle hole. A little way off she could hear the bang of Pa’s fence tool as he drove in more staples to hold up the barbed wire and fix the fence where the cows had knocked it down.

Good thing Dinah stayed with Laurie, thought Rosemary, carefully inspecting the ground ahead of her so that she would not betray her presence by a snapped twig or a rolling pebble. I could never sneak up on Pa if she was with me.

Rosemary would have preferred soft moccasins for her spy work, but Mum always made her wear hiking boots when she went climbing on the mountain, and the clumpy boots made it extra hard to be quiet. Still, she could see Pa now, leaning down to drive in another staple, and he hadn’t heard her yet.

Taking advantage of the banging, Rosemary advanced another few yards, then ducked behind a huge poplar just as Pa stood up and pulled off his T-shirt. He wiped the sweat off his face and flapped the shirt in front of him like a fan. The shirt was dark with perspiration and Pa stretched it out over the top strand of wire.

She had to stifle a giggle. It was fun being a spy. Maybe if Pa left his shirt there while he kept on working…maybe she could creep up and grab it without his seeing her. It would be like counting coup. That would show Maythorn what a good Cherokee Rosemary was becoming.

Pa moved a little farther along the fence, stretching wire and hammering it to the posts. Rosemary stayed behind the big tree, waiting for her opportunity. When he gets to the scuttle hole…then I’ll make my move.

Well, hello there, neighbor. I heard all that racket and thought maybe it was some big woodpecker.

Rosemary peeked cautiously around the massive trunk. Rats! Mrs. Barbie. Just like her to come along and ruin things.

Howdy, Patricia. No, it’s just me trying to keep the damn cows where they belong. Were you looking for Maythorn? She hasn’t been over today—our Rosie’s down at the house reading.

Oh, that Maythorn, she’s here and there. I don’t even try to keep up with her. You know, she has another little friend she visits—a local child called Tammy or something like that. Somewhere over there.

Mrs. Barbie’s hand waved vaguely toward the top of the mountain. The big shirt she wore over a pair of purple shorts fell open, revealing a brightly flowered bikini top.

Her boobs are about to fall out, thought Rosemary in prim disgust. I’m glad Mum doesn’t wear stuff like that.

Mrs. Barbie laughed. She had a silly, tee-hee-hee laugh. Well, as you can see, I was down by the pool. Then I heard the banging and got curious, so I decided to investigate.

From her hiding place Rosemary could see Mrs. Barbie take a step closer to her father and place one hand on his bare chest. She tilted her head to look up at him, batted her false eyelashes, and purred. But I’m glad to find you up here, Sam. I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something. Moon doesn’t notice things and it’s hopeless trying to discuss anything with him. Sam, I’m a little concerned about that retarded local who wanders all around. Do you think he’s safe?

Pa looked at Mrs. Barbie’s hand as he answered. Cletus knows these woods better than anyone, according to his mother. Yes, I’d say he’s perfectly safe.

Pa took a step back but Mrs. Barbie followed him. She twiddled her fingers on his arm.

Oh, Sam, that’s not what I meant. I mean, is he safe to have around the children? I think he may have kind of a thing about little girls, especially Krystalle. He’s never done anything, but somehow
—

I don’t think there’s anything to worry about there, Patricia. Cletus is at our place a lot and Liz
—

That reminds me, how is Elizabeth? I hadn’t seen her in ages, and then I ran into her at the grocery store last week and I almost didn’t recognize her. She looked…oh, just so tired and unhappy. Is she all right?

Liz tries to do too much. And adjusting to this new life has been hard. Pa said this patiently, like he was repeating himself.

And it did sound familiar. Rosemary had heard her parents quietly arguing about this…and other things too.

Mrs. Barbie’s voice dropped to a low murmur. Rosemary could just hear some of what she said…. Understand all too well…frustration…Moon…drinking problem…attracted to you.

There was a silence. With all the caution of her Cherokee training, Rosemary inched her head to where she could see what was happening. Patricia Mullins had her arms around Pa’s neck. She was pulling his face down to meet hers.

Rosemary hadn’t waited to see what would happen next. She was older than she had been when she saw Mum kissing Maythorn’s uncle…a lot older…and she knew what might come next. They hadn’t heard her hurrying away down the trail.

She hadn’t cried this time. Maythorn had taught her that Indians don’t show pain or sorrow. That other time, a year and a half ago, she had boo-hooed like a big baby, but not now.

Instead of going back to the house, where Mum might ask questions, she had made straight for the Cave of the Two Sisters. There was comfort beneath the solid shapes of the leaning giants, always together, always faithful. She pulled out her spy notebook and began to write.

What was that? She froze and listened. The sound of something rustling through the bushes outside sent a chill over her body. Now it was scrabbling at the entrance to the hideout. A terrible thought came to her and she felt her mouth go dry.

What if it was Cletus? Miss Birdie said that he knew this mountain like the back of his hand. That meant he probably knew about this cave. Was it him scraping his way through the low entrance? Rosemary shivered as she remembered the last time she was alone with Cletus—when he had skinned the squirrel. Is he safe to have around the children?…a thing about little girls—Mrs. Barbie’s words echoed in her ears like the warning cries of circling crows.

The scratching and scrabbling grew louder, and Rosemary grabbed one of the fist-sized rocks that Maythorn had insisted they carry into the hideout. Ammo in case the enemy attack, Maythorn had said. Rosemary’s fingers curled tightly around the rock.

A faded blue ball cap came into view in the low entrance and Rosemary dropped the rock. She sank to a cross-legged sitting position, hastily opened her spy notebook, and began to write, summoning all the nonchalance at her command.

Maythorn slid into view, breathing hard. One braid had come undone and black hair spilled from under her cap. Her jeans were filthy and scratches covered her thin brown arms. She put her finger to her lips and listened intently for a few moments. No sound came from outside the hideout.

At last she relaxed and stretched full-length on the sandy floor. They almost caught me, she told Rosemary. But I gave ’em the slip.

Who was chasing you, Maythorn? Rosemary looked wide-eyed at her friend, her blood twin.

Those folks over the mountain. Tamra’s dad and some others. They have a bunch of mean dogs. I’m pretty sure they’re growing marijuana and they didn’t want me to see it.

Rosemary knew all about marijuana. Officer Jim and Officer Deb had talked to the school assembly about the bad things that could happen to kids who smoked it. How do you know it’s marijuana, she asked, wondering how long Maythorn had been going over the mountain to see this Tamra, wondering why Maythorn had never talked about another friend.

Jared told me. He buys it from them. I followed him over there one time. Maythorn rolled over, reached into the pocket of her knapsack, and pulled out a small tin cough-drop box. She sat up, and with a knowing half smile opened the box and waved it under Rosemary’s horrified eyes.

A small box of matches and a lumpy-looking cigarette lay within the little container. Maythorn narrowed her eyes and looked at her friend. Jared gave me this so I wouldn’t tell Moon that he had some weed—that’s what Jared calls it. And this is a joint.

What are you going to do with it? Rosemary couldn’t take her eyes off the forbidden object. You could get in big trouble….

What do you think I’m going to do with it? A rattle of matches, a spurt of flame, and after several false starts, the joint was alight. You’re supposed to breathe the smoke right into your lungs, Maythorn said. Breathe it in and hold it there as long as you can. Jared showed me how. He said it’s like an Indian vision quest.

21.

T
HE
S
PY
N
OTEBOOKS

Monday, October 17

The defiant words,
so incongruous in the young Rosemary’s looping, sprawled handwriting, had been written with pencil, pressed so hard that the indentations were still visible. Two heavy, angry lines underscored the words “I don’t care.” With a sick feeling, Elizabeth turned back to the beginning of the entry.

August 9, 1986—Today I saw Pa kissing Maythorn’s mom. And today me and Maythorn smoked
marywana
weed. I know that it was a bad thing to do but
I don’t care.
Mum and Pa have done bad things too.

“Oh, god! The poor baby. It wasn’t bad enough that she saw me that time with Mike, but then to see
Sam
acting the same way! And that
bitch
Patricia. Oh, my poor baby Rosie!”

Heartsick, Elizabeth closed the little book and thrust it away. She buried her face in her hands and rocked back and forth in misery.
I never wanted the girls to know anything about that…that stupid, stupid, passing craziness that hit first me, then Sam. I wanted them to have a perfect childhood, not worrying that their parents might get divorced, that one would leave. I never wanted them to carry around the kind of anxiety I felt when I was growing up—the emptiness, the guilt.

She raised her head and looked around the little room that for so many years had been Rosemary’s private lair. The unicorn posters had been taken down; the menagerie of stuffed animals had been dispersed; the lavender-blue walls had been repainted apple green. It was now “the loft guest room” not “Rosie’s room.” But the bookshelves still held many of Rosemary’s childhood books and treasures. And, in some indefinable sense, the room retained the imprint of the Rosie that had been.

Elizabeth closed her eyes in a half-formed prayer. She wanted to believe that the angry words penciled in the notebook had been a momentary reaction, that the essential Rosemary herself had remained untouched.
But just a few months after this, Maythorn vanished. And Rosie stopped talking. Of course we thought it was the terrible loss of her friend. But was it also a reaction to what she saw as her parents betraying each other?

“Get a grip, Elizabeth!” She sat up and drew a deep breath.
Rosemary is a happy successful woman. She did
not
have a blighted childhood—she told you so herself.

“God, I hope that’s true.” She whispered the words and reached for the notebook as if grasping a nettle. It had become necessary that she follow this wherever it led.

The next entry was a week later. There was no mention of Sam and Patricia Mullins; instead, there was a terse
I don’t like Tamra. All she wants to do is swim in the swimming pool and play dress-up with Maythorn’s fancy clothes—the ones Maythorn won’t wear unless her mom makes a big fuss. It’s boring. We can’t go to the hideout when she’s around. I made Maythorn promise not to tell Tamra about the Cave of the Two Sisters. I don’t think she will.

Tamra…the name was vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t put a face to it. As far as she knew, the Mullins girls had been the only children living nearby back then. Rosie and Maythorn had been close friends out of necessity, as well as inclination. Maybe Tamra was one of the pageant children that Patricia Mullins occasionally had out to Mullmore for play dates with Krystalle.

Elizabeth turned the pages, skimming through days and weeks. Some entries were businesslike notations of what Rosemary called her “work”—the spy game.

August 12
—3:15 p.m. Bus driver stops at foot of the Buckman’s road and waits for a long time. Buckman kids have already gotten off and gone up the road.

3:23 p.m. Young guy in old blue Ford truck with one red door stops by bus. Herley tells us kids to stay put. He gets out. He has a Timberland shoe box under his arm. He talks to the guy (skinny, long hair, yellow tractor cap).

3:27 p.m. Young guy gives Herley money and Herley gives him shoe box. Maythorn tries to get license number of the truck but it’s all splashed with mud and all we could see was a J a three.

Billy Gentry and Shawn Clemmons got in a fight while Herley was off the bus. When Herley got back on, he said he was just giving his brother-in-law some boots he’d picked up for him in Asheville. Maythorn says he could be selling crack, like Officer Deb and Officer Jim told us about. She says not to say anything till we have more evidense.

August 16
—2:23 p.m. Maythorn and me are in our special tree in their woods. We can see the swimming pool and the gazeebo real good. Mr. Mullins is in the pool, floating around on a rubber raft. He has a plastic glass on his stomach.

2:34 p.m. Mrs. Barbie comes out calls him. He doesn’t answer.

September 13
—Top of Pinnacle. 1:20 p.m. We brought our lunch up to eat in our Top of the World spy outpost. Maythorn says that if we are very quiet we could see some thing important. She won’t tell me what.

1:35 p.m. Mike Mullins has come up the trail from Mullmore and is sitting on a log. He is whistling.

1:40 p.m. A lady in tight jeans with fancy yellow hair comes up the trail from the other side of mountain. She is looking around like she’s scared. Mike whistles she runs to him. He is hugging her very tight and now she is laughing. They go back down the trail to Mullmore. Maythorn says that is Tamra’s mom.

Tamra again. Elizabeth’s brow wrinkled. And just on the other side of the mountain.
Where did I hear that name recently?
She turned over a few more pages, looking for another mention of the name. There it was again, part of an undated entry—not a “spy report,” but a sad little statement:
I don’t like the Reaper Game. It’s too scary. But Tamra Maythorn think it’s fun, so I have to play.

She was lost in her daughter’s past, trying to make sense of the childish scrawl and the accounts of things observed almost twenty years ago.
Where
was
I back then? And who is this
Tamra?
And her mother? I had no idea that Rosie and Maythorn were spending all this time spying on everyone. That kind of thing could get them in trouble.

A chill coursed through her body.
Maybe it did. Maybe that’s what happened to Maythorn—what if the child saw something she shouldn’t have? She wandered all over the place—not like Rosie, who stayed close to home…I think. Where the hell
was
I?

The answer was obvious—she had been dealing with the house, the farm, the garden. They had been growing tobacco back then—long, exhausting days of hoeing, topping, spraying, cutting, hanging. Time had passed in something of a blur and she had been grateful that her quiet older daughter had seemed so content and happy with her friend. She and Sam had congratulated themselves that Rosemary didn’t beg for a television set but seemed happy with her books and her explorations.

Does a mother ever really know her child’s heart and mind?
Elizabeth turned the pages before her at random, no longer trying to read, but simply acknowledging the enormity of her ignorance.

Cletus.
The name of Miss Birdie’s son, dead a little over a year now, jumped out at her from the page.
Cletus was in the woods near our hideout again.

He had been a frequent visitor to Full Circle Farm back then. Cletus was known to be “simple,” in the gentle parlance of the mountains. He could not read but he was, as his mother had often said, “a good hand to work,” and when the Gentrys’ tobacco and crops were hoed and fertilized, Cletus would often appear at Full Circle Farm, ready to lend a hand at any job. Sam had always paid him what they could, over Cletus’s protestations that he just liked to help.

Laurel had had a deep affection for the shy young man, as had Sam and Elizabeth. Rosemary, on the other hand, had never been quite at ease around him. The idea of a grown-up who couldn’t read, who was often more childish than her little sister, seemed to disturb her at some deep, involuntary level, and Elizabeth had soon realized that Rosemary, while dutifully polite to Cletus, made a point of avoiding him.

Elizabeth turned the page.
He tried to show me something he had in his pocket but I ran away. I don’t like Cletus.

The barking of the dogs alerted Elizabeth to Phillip’s return. She went to the window and looked out across her garden. There he was, hiking up the road, a knapsack on his back, and on his face the happy look of a man coming home at the end of the day to a warm house, a good meal, and his heart’s desire.

Instantly she abandoned the notebooks and hurried down the steep stairs.

As Elizabeth flung open the front door and her eyes met his, a tide of thankfulness swept over him. Phillip dropped his knapsack in one of the porch rockers, opened his arms wide, and engulfed her in a glad embrace.

“Everything okay today? No unwelcome visitors?”

“None, Phillip.” She leaned against him, a sweet and comfortable armful. “Only, maybe, some unwelcome memories.”

She had not explained, beyond saying that she’d been reading through Rosemary’s notebooks. As they sat side by side on the sofa before the fire, enjoying their after-dinner coffee, Phillip rummaged through his thoughts for something to lift the solemn mood that seemed to have overtaken her at the mention of the notebooks. That had persisted through dinner.

“Elizabeth, are you still up for the gun class on Saturday?”

“I’m not trying to back out or anything, Phillip, but…I don’t know, I guess it seems a little excessive.”

Okay, now or never.
“Elizabeth, there’s something else here you need to know about. I don’t think it was Bib who broke into your house. And neither does Blaine.”

She started to speak, but he plowed ahead. “Did Sam ever mention Lawrence Landrum? From Nam?”