The Rosewood Casket (12 page)

“This is my territory, Squaw, and I have to keep watch over it,” he would tell her. He called her “squaw” sometimes when he was in a teasing mood, on account of her brown eyes and her sharp, angled cheekbones that supposedly came from a Cherokee great-grandmother, somewhere back in the family history.

Frank had written all over those wall maps in his own special code. He claimed to know who owned every foot of land in Wake County, and most of Carter and Unicoi, besides. He knew where the best views were, and how deep the wells were from one farm to the next, and who had the best soil for growing tomatoes. He didn’t boast about knowing those things, though. He kept the information in reserve in case it should ever come in handy. The other part of his work, though it didn’t occur to most people, was to be around: visible, accessible, and friendly to the community as a whole. He went to the Little League games, never missed a men’s prayer breakfast, and had served a couple of terms on the board of county commissioners. Frank Whitescarver knew everybody.

“I can dial a wrong number and still talk,” he would tell her, jutting his chin out, the way he always did when he bragged.

Betty Lou often wished that she had Frank’s way with people, but that was past praying for, she reckoned. Oh, she was polite to all and sundry—never a harsh word from her lips to anybody—but she just never did seem to cotton to people as much as Frank did. He seemed to thrive on five straight nights of community meetings, topped by a Saturday morning trash pickup with the Ruritans. Just thinking about it made her tired. She didn’t mind people every now and again, but she was never sorry when they went away, either. Fortunately, Frank didn’t insist on her trying to be pup-friendly, like he was. Sometimes she even thought that’s why he married her—so that he could have a rest at home from all the grins and chitchat.

She stood in the doorway, watching him poring over his maps. His bald head shone in the lamplight, and his glasses were slid clear down to his nostrils so that he could see the fine print next to the pushpins. “I’m going up to bed, Frank,” she said. “Can I get you anything before I go?” She pointed to the pile of papers on the floor near his desk. “A garbage bag?” But her voice was teasing.

Frank looked up at the dark outline in the doorway and smiled back. “No, thank you, ma’am. I won’t be long here. I just needed to come up with a few more land prospects before the city folks commence their spring migration. I was thinking about some of those places up on the ridge near the national forest. It’s nice table land with good views. Good trees, too.”

“Are any of those places for sale, Frank?”

He smiled at her. “Why, Squaw, there’s not a foot of land in the entire world that’s
not
for sale, if you go about it right. I just have to do a little investigating and see what it’s going to take to shift those folks off some prime development land at a bargain price. I heard today that old man Stargill was taken to the hospital in Johnson City. I think I’ll drive up there tomorrow, and see if I can be of any help at all to his family.”

Betty Lou Whitescarver frowned. She couldn’t remember if the Stargills were anyone she should know, or if any of them were in one of Frank’s many organizations. She wondered how he had heard about the illness in the family, but then, Frank always seemed to know the most peculiar things, often as not before everybody else found out about it. “Will you need me to go with you, Frank? Or send a cake?” She could not keep the reluctance out of her voice. “I have to get my hair done tomorrow afternoon. It’s my regular day. And then I thought I might go to the mall.”

“Oh, don’t you worry,” said her husband, waving away her tentative offer. “You won’t have to go. This condolence call is in the nature of business. Why, I might just be an answer to prayer for Randall Stargill’s boys. Yes, sir. An answer to prayer.”

*   *   *

Randall Stargill, earthbound by tubes and glowing machinery, dreamed on. A young nurse, making the rounds of the third floor in the darkest hours of the night, looked in on him, checking his vital signs, and recording the results on the chart at the foot of the bed. He seemed to be holding steady again. A few hours earlier, there had been rapid fluctuations in the old man’s heartbeat, and a flock of white-coats gathered around his bedside, waiting to see if he would let go of life at last, and ready to drag him back if he tried. But when the crisis passed without their assistance, and without the patient ever awakening, the staff members drifted away to more urgent and promising patients.

Word had got around among the nursing staff that this scraggly old man was the father of a famous country singer—not that such a thing would make any difference in his care, because in any case they would do the best they could for a patient, but more staffers than usual dropped by to have a look at him, and at the nurses station, they wondered aloud whether anybody famous from Nashville would turn up during visiting hours.

The young nurse wondered if the poor old man knew where he was; if he could feel all the tubes intruding into his body; and if he minded all the effort being made to keep him alive for another useless day.

He looked peaceful now, except for the occasional flutter of an eyelid, indicating whatever passes for dreams to the comatose. She stood looking down on him, feeling neither pity nor sorrow, and thought to herself that, for all intents and purposes, the two of them were each alone in this bright, sterile room.

*   *   *

In the cool darkness of his hospital room Randall Stargill stirred under clean sheets and took flight again. It was autumn this time, and Randall was walking with a young woman on Shawnee Ridge. She was nearly his own height, and slender, with hair as dark as any Indian’s, but her eyes were a clear blue that looked right past you and into forever. He wasn’t thinking about that, though, because her lips were red and sweet, and she was holding his hand as if she were afraid that the wind would blow her off into the valley.

She was pretty, graceful, and quiet, but the thing that Randall Stargill liked best about her was that he couldn’t make her laugh. He was smaller than the other boys in the high school, and a little smarter than most, so to keep tempers on an even keel, Randall had got into the habit of clowning, laughing away an opponent’s resentment, jesting his way past an A-plus. He was popular enough, but sometimes he wished his classmates would like him for himself, without his having to try so hard. She never laughed at him. She seemed to like him better when they would talk together about serious things.

“You ever wonder what the hawk sees when he’s sailing up there?” he said, pointing to a brown speck among the clouds.

“The valley down there, same as we’re seeing,” she said, smiling.

“Yes, but we have to stay on this one ridge, while he gets to fly all around and look at things from every which way. You can do that from an airplane, you know.”

“Guess you can, if you’re not too scared to look.”

“I wouldn’t be scared! I want to go up in one of those planes. This summer when the fair comes back to Hamelin, I’m going to get one of the barnstormers to take me up in his biplane. And I don’t want any old tame ride, either. I want to see the kind of stunt flying those fellows did in the Great War.”

“I heard it was ten dollars to go up in one of those things.”

“I know it, but I’m saving up. I can get ten cents a gallon for picking blackberries, and I can dig up some ’sang there in the woods and sell that to the root collectors for fifty cents an ounce. Then I can take me a ride and see this valley and all creation just like a hawk does.”

“That would be a fine sight,” she said. “Especially when the leaves have turned. But I’ll stay here on the ground and watch.”

“You’re not scared, are you?” He squeezed her hand. “Afraid I’ll crash?”

She shook her head. “No, Randall. You’ll be all right in that airplane, and the ones to come.”

She could have told him to save his money. He would see enough of the earth from the inside of a plane in seven years’ time, as the turret gunner in a flying fortress over France. But if Nora Bonesteel knew what was in store for Randall in the years to come, she never said. Just as they never talked about what was past. About Fayre.

CHAPTER FIVE

It is Never to Late to Do good. [
sic
]

—DANIEL BOONE

Breakfast began with a platter of rubbery scrambled eggs, peppered with forced pleasantries from the women about the weather and duties of the day and consumed in a strained silence by the Stargill brothers. Kelley had decided to let her daughter sleep late, so that the adults could have an uninterrupted breakfast. Lilah, still in her turquoise caftan, bustled about the kitchen, fetching a salt shaker and napkins, and asking if anyone wanted seconds. Thirds? But no one seemed much in the mood to eat. Even a jar of homemade jelly, marked
Merry Christmas from the Jessups
, had failed to whet their appetites.

They drank coffee and stifled yawns. Clayt, who had driven to the convenience store down the mountain at six to restock the egg supply, was beginning to feel his lack of sleep; otherwise, he might have thought of something to say to these strangers with whom he shared breakfast—and bloodlines.

“Well, I guess we ought to plan today’s schedule,” said Lilah, as she poured the last of the new pot of coffee into Robert Lee’s half-f cup. “Tell us what you guys will be doing, and when you want to be fed. Meals for eight people don’t just happen in ten minutes, you know.”

“First I thought we’d go out to the barn,” said Clayt. “Garrett wanted us to take a look at some rosewood that Daddy’s had stored out there in the barn loft.”

“What about the hospital?” asked Robert Lee.

“Visiting hours are in the afternoon,” said Clayt. “But they might let you in any time, seeing as Daddy’s so ill.”

“I called at five, when I got up,” said Garrett, who was still in the T-shirt and sweatpants he had worn running. “They said he’s in stable condition.”

“But not conscious?” asked Charles Martin.

“No.”

“If you all want to go to the hospital later on, I could stay with the little girl,” said Debba.

Everyone turned to look at her. It was the first thing she had said all morning, besides “please” and “no thank you.” She looked pale and tired.

“Or I could cook something while you were out.” She twisted her hands in her lap. “It’s just that I hate hospitals,” she said.

“I don’t think there’s any need for all of us to go,” said Kelley. She had felt as much relief as pity seeing Debba’s stricken look, because she didn’t think she had any business going to the hospital as if she were a member of the family. Why, she hadn’t even met old Mr. Stargill. It was one thing to come along to give Charlie moral support, but quite another to overstep her bounds as a guest and a stranger. “I’ll be glad to stay with you, Debba,” she said. “Hospitals don’t much care for crowds around the very ill. I’m sure there are things we could be doing here.”

“Well,” said Clayt. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask all of you, since you didn’t hear us talking about Daddy’s list last night. This is as good a time as any. Do any of you know what a scripture cake is?”

He got only bewildered looks in reply. “I guess it’s a custom from Daddy’s childhood, or something. New to me. Well, some old lady from the church is bound to come by, and she’d be the likeliest person to know. Just remember to ask about it, will you? The next thing is more difficult. Do you do any sewing? Especially quilting?” He addressed the question to Lilah.

Kelley said, “I was taught when I was a little girl. My grandmother used to make quilts, but I never did one myself. Just sewed seams for Mamaw sometimes.”

“What is it you want done?” asked Lilah. “My sewing is more of the mending variety. It was never something I cared to do.”

“Debba does needlepoint,” said Garrett. “She did us a cushion once.”

His wife ducked her head. “Oh, it wasn’t very good. My fingers get so numb.”

“Are you thinking of the burying clothes?” asked Lilah. “I guess Daddy Stargill’s suits are all too big for him now that he’s taken so ill. If you’ve got a sewing machine, I guess I could take them in some. Passable enough for a viewing anyhow—not to wear on the street.”

Clayt shook his head. “That coffin Daddy wants us to build—we’re going to need a lining for it.”

“I never did anything like that,” said Kelley. “But it doesn’t sound real hard. Is it like a blanket?’

“I expect so,” Lilah said. “They could measure the inside of the box, and we could make a quilt big enough to cover the entire inside. The boys could tack it down around the edges so that it wouldn’t slip or bunch up once it was in the casket.”

“I think we could do that,” said Kelley. “I’ll be glad to help out all I can.” She smiled over at Charles Martin. “Is there a piece goods shop around here?”

Charles Martin sighed. “That doesn’t seem right, somehow. Buying new, fancy material to fit out a homemade coffin. I mean, if we’re going to abide by Daddy’s wishes, we may as well do it properly. Store-bought just doesn’t fit the traditional burying he seems to want.”

“I suppose next you’ll be wanting a glass coach pulled by black-plumed horses,” snorted Robert Lee. “We have to be practical, folks.”

“It might
be
practical,” said Clayt. “I wonder if those old trunks are still up in the attic?”

“Scraps?” asked Kelley.

“All kinds of stuff. See, our family has lived here for nigh on two hundred years, and none of our people were big on throwing things away. They didn’t waste much in the old days. So there’s old trunks up there with old baby things, outgrown clothes, raggedy quilts. We used to root around up there when we were kids. No telling what you might find.”

“Unless Daddy cleared it all out after Momma died,” said Garrett. “Still, you could have a look.”

“You want to line Daddy’s coffin with rags?” Robert Lee stood up from the table, shaking his head. “That’s not showing any kind of respect.”

“No. Wait,” said Charles Martin. “There’s a lot of sense to this. Clayt didn’t suggest using the family cast-offs to be stingy. If Daddy wants a traditional burial, it seems to be that he’d want as many family connections as he can get. What better way to finish a coffin made by his sons than to line it with a quilt made from the clothes of his loved ones? A piece of Mama’s wedding dress, scraps from our baby clothes, or a square of his mother’s shawl. Remember that black embroidered shawl, Clayt?”