The Secret of the Dark

The Secret of the Dark

Barbara Steiner

To the memory of

Chlora Daniel and Rebecca Stilley
,

my grandmothers

who lived in Arkansas
…

CHAPTER

1

I
KNEW
Granny deShan's place would be hard to get to. My stepmother, Rue, had warned me, and she and Dad had worked out specific directions. I had never traveled alone, but it didn't worry me to do so. The plane to Little Rock, the bus to Harrison, another bus to Catalpa Ridge — now I felt as if I'd been traveling for days. The last straw was there was only one taxi in Catalpa Ridge. That was ridiculous. I sat on a wooden bench in the deserted bus station, thought of New York with a taxi on every corner, and tried not to wish I were there, on my way back from my dance lesson or a concert.

The little man at the ticket counter peered over his glasses at me, his bald head shining in the glare from the bulb overhead. It was only late afternoon, but the light was dim inside the small station. To give my trip the finishing touch it needed, it was probably going to rain.

“Someone meeting you?” he asked.

“I'm waiting for a taxi.”
The taxi
, I added to myself, trying not to look so tired or, even worse, nervous. If I could find my way around a big city like New York, why should this little, one-taxi town make me apprehensive?

“You're a stranger here.” It was a statement, not a question. He'd know everyone in town. I was sure I stood out in the waiting room with its wooden benches, dirty-brown tile floor, five luggage lockers, and one water fountain.

I knew his curiosity was harmless, but I didn't volunteer any information. “Yes.” I stood and walked to the door to stop the questions. I wasn't used to talking to people I didn't know. Strangers in New York didn't talk to each other often. The woman I sat next to on the bus to Catalpa Ridge had asked all sorts of questions. My seatmate from Little Rock had told me her life history and all about her daughter's problems with her ex-husband. I guess that's typical of people in Arkansas — maybe all the South. But I couldn't change my habits that easily.

Finally the old car, painted light blue, that served as a cab pulled up in front of the waiting room. The driver got out and lifted my big bag into the car. I kept my overnight case and my purse with me.

“I want to go to Annie deShan's place off Fox Trot Bluffs.” What kind of address was that? I felt silly saying it, but those were the directions I had.

“Way out there?” he questioned. If it was a far trip, I'd have thought he'd have been glad for the fare. Taxis in New York hate it if you're going only around the block.

“Yes, please.” I made my voice firm and leaned back on the lumpy seat. I
was
tired but I had to hold up a little longer. Then Granny would understand my going to bed early. She probably slept a lot herself, being so old.

“You LaRue's stepdaughter, come to visit?”

“Yes,” I answered. Apparently he had all the details. The idea of my arriving in New York City and the taxi driver knowing who I was made me smile. I had to stop thinking about New York. Rue talked about culture shock from her world travels. I had a feeling Catalpa Ridge was going to give me culture shock, if it hadn't already happened.

“Pretty girl like you — you're going to be lonely living on that mountain, aren't you?”

“I'll manage,” I said, but a seed of doubt had crept in since my initial excitement at coming here. I was doing it for my stepmother. She and my father were going to the Middle East to do a book together. Then they'd heard that Granny needed someone to stay with her. I took over so they wouldn't have to cancel their trip.

We took the only street out of town and immediately turned off the highway onto a dirt road. The road wound around and climbed at the same time. As we bounced along and twisted higher, the clouds got thicker, drifting across the road and sometimes swallowing up the nose of the car.

“Do you always have this much fog here?” I decided to be friendly after all.

“This time of year. Winter too.” The driver slowed and turned the steering wheel sharply to make a switchback. “And on the mountain. Rainier than usual this summer. Guess this is different from New York?”

“Yes.” I smiled. “Some.”

“Well, here we are.” The driver stopped the car, but I couldn't think we were anywhere. He opened the door for me, but my standing in the dirt road made no difference. The whole world was wrapped in damp cotton clouds.

“You want some help with this suitcase?”

I could tell he didn't want to carry it. “No, that's all right. I'll manage.” That was the second time I'd said that. I'd manage. Well, I would, but I'd like a hint. “The house?”

“Up there.” The driver pointed to stairs that came into focus on the other side of the taxi. “Granny's cabin clings to that mountain like a boy riding bareback. Folks round here think she shouldn't live there alone. I reckon it's a good thing you've come.” He got back in the car, did a U-turn, spitting gravel, and rattled off down the mountain road.

I stood there for a minute, then lifted my heavy case. I had thought one big bag would be easier to manage than two middle-sized ones, but now I knew I was wrong. Why hadn't I asked for help to Granny's door? I'd certainly tipped him generously. Sometimes I was too independent for my own good.

The clouds became wispy, revealing that the wooden staircase went up and up and was fairly steep. I settled the straps of the overnight case and my purse on one shoulder and lifted the suitcase in my other hand, struggling for balance. Fortunately my legs were strong. After a few steps, however, I realized spinning around a crowded dance floor was easier than negotiating this rickety climb up to my vacation cabin.

It was quiet, quieter than I'd ever known in all my seventeen years. No rush of traffic, no people chattering or shouting, no yelling from the next-door neighbors in our “soundproof” aparment building. Suddenly I felt frightened, just from the lack of noise. It was as if I were the only person on earth, perched on these rough wooden boards that laddered up the mountain. I was totally alone. There finally had been a nuclear war and I was the only survivor. I shivered. Then I scolded myself. “Silly,” I said aloud to hear some noise, even my voice.

A bird answered with an up and down cheerful melody.

“Thanks, bird. I needed that.” I started up again, and rounding a curve, I could see the cabin, clinging to the mountain as the driver had described it. The clouds softened all its gray edges as if an artist had drawn it in with charcoal and then smudged it for a fuzzy, impressionistic look. It sat in a small clearing with a huge oak tree in front Behind, trees marched straight up another mountain slope. To the right another mountain slope was gentler. The cabin wasn't big, maybe three rooms, but a porch ran the length of the front and I imagined it would be pleasant on a summer evening. A tin roof imitated a ski jump. The only sturdy-looking part of the house was a rock chimney on the east.

“This is your home for two months, Valerie,” I whispered, still under the influence of the clouds and the seclusion.

I had wanted time alone. I had chosen not to go to my friend Pam's house, but rather to come and granny-sit when this emergency arose for Rue. Was this
too
alone? More than I'd bargained for? Alone was a couple of hours in my room before Dad and Rue came home from work. Alone was Saturday afternoon when they went to the library or the art gallery. Walking home from my piano lesson. I had a feeling I was in for a new definition of alone.

Suddenly I felt foolish standing there halfway up the steps from the road. Granny was expecting me. Inside the cabin would be warm and dry and cozy. I took a deep breath, noticing how fresh and clean the air smelled, and I started up again.

Just as I reached the path that met the last step, a haunting melody drifted with the wisps of clouds. I stopped to listen. Granny's guitar. Rue said she played. And Granny's voice, wavering slightly, sang:

“In Scarlet Town where I was born,

There was a fair maid dwellin'

Made every youth cry well-a-day

And her name was Barb'ry Allen.”

“Barbara Allen.” It was one of the few folk songs I knew and I felt glad it was familiar. Moving closer, I set down my bags and walked to the double windows that were open in what must have been the living room. Granny's voice sang the ballad with feeling, telling the sad story of the two lovers.

When she finished the song I stood a moment longer. The music seemed to echo off the slopes nearby. Before I could get my bags and go to the door to knock, however, the same wavering voice floated out the window.

“Come in, child. I've been expecting you all afternoon.”

For a moment, I couldn't move. How had Granny known I was there? I hadn't said anything. I had on tennis shoes. Maybe she'd heard the car doors slam from down below — the voices. That was it. Rue said Granny's sight was failing but her hearing seemed to be pretty good.

The cabin wasn't cozy and warm. It was as damp and dark as outside. Darker. Granny had no lights on yet. I could make out a fireplace at the far end of the room, but no friendly fire crackled merrily.

I left my bags near the door and walked over to the rocker where a tiny old woman sat, guitar flat on her lap, one claw of a hand still curled around the strings. Her hair was the color of spun sugar and was twisted into a knot on top of her head. Her face, wrinkled as the inside of a dried apple and about the same color, turned up to me with the hint of a smile.

“Hello, Granny deShan. I'm Valerie Wreyford.” I bent closer to her and her hands fluttered up to my face, brushing my cheeks and hair like a kitten's soft paws exploring.

“So smooth, like cream. My face was that purty once.”

“You're still pretty, Granny.” And she was. “Your hair is a beautiful color.”

“Hit was yaller once. Yours is like a blackbird's wing.” Then the old woman began telling of a dance she had gone to where two boys said they “fancied yaller hair” and courted her all evening. I could tell she was no longer in the cabin but had gone back to that night. I left her alone with the memory that was probably more joyful than her life now.

I turned on a light near the fireplace and noticed a piano hunched in the corner. A room at the other end of the cabin was obviously Granny's. A bathroom had been added some years ago, Rue had assured me, and the kitchen updated.

I was hungry now that I'd reached my destination. Plane meals and bus station counters had offered little that was appealing. Peeking in the small refrigerator, I saw that someone had gotten some groceries.

“Fleecy brung some vittles fer you.” Granny stood watching me. She'd moved
so
quietly I'd not heard her.

“What had you planned for dinner, Granny?” I asked.

“I never plan my eating, child. You help yourself.”

I did. To cheese and ham and a bowl of delicious cherry cobbler. Then I boiled water for tea, after finding the combination of knobs to get the old gas stove burner lit. Granny had picked at a slice of bread and ham and seemed grateful for a cup of hot tea. She curled her gnarled fingers round it as if drawing heat into her hands.

“Kin you make cornbread, child? I've been hankering for me some cornbread all week.”

I could cook. I had taken care of Dad for the four years since my mother had died. “Tomorrow, Granny. Tomorrow I'll make cornbread.”

“Let me show you where the skillet is.” She moved to get up, but I put out one hand to stop her. Her shoulder was rag-doll soft and her body slight as a bird's.

After washing the dishes, I felt as if I hadn't slept for weeks. “Where do I sleep, Granny?”

“You kin have the loft room all to yourself, child. Nobody's stayed up there since Rue was here.”