Able didn't move.
“I don't want to go back out there,” he said slowly.
There was more than mere concern for his fiancée in the voice.
“The whole point of our being here,” Andrews said wearily, “is for you to go back out there.”
“Come on, brother,” Skid coaxed.
Able looked to Rud for help, but Rud was still staring out the window.
“Okay,” Able said hoarsely. “Let's do it.”
We were out the door without another word. Rud stood in the archway watching us for a moment. We heard the door close as we turned onto the path that would lead us to the Newcomb corner of the cemetery.
Contrary to what might have been expected, twilight shadows added nothing to the ambience of the landscape. There may be a degree of strangeness that no environment is allowed to exceed, and our graveyard had reached its limit.
We walked in silence. I suspected that none of us had any hope left of finding the girl. We were loud men trudging through an overgrown landscapeâhardly a difficult group from which to hide.
The path to the far corner of the yard went upward through an unused half-acre or so: brown grass, gangly wild privet, a gnarled rhododendron or two, a kingdom of
nigella
pods each the size of a baby's fistâeerie, alien, bending in the night wind. Someone had sown the area with a flower called love-in-a-mist, and these brown, devil-horned seed pods were all the autumn had left of them.
We topped a small ridge; the Newcomb area was revealed.
Tidy, well-arranged, uniform to a fault, the graves and vaults were significantly out of step with the rest of the cemetery. It was impossible to miss the fact that the entire section had been spotlessly groomed recently. No weeds, no stray growthâonly sterile order.
“Rud does his job,” Skidmore said softly. “Let's start with the big one.”
We started down the slope, headed for the largest of the structures in the center of the area.
“Hang on,” Andrews said after a step or two. “I thought his job was to care first for the Pinhurst family holdings here.”
Skid stopped. I took in a breath.
“What?” Andrews said to me, noticing our new tension.
“It never occurred to meâbut of course you wouldn't know,” I answered slowly. “Pinhurst is the maiden name of the woman who married Jeribald Newcomb.”
“Tubby,” Andrews said. “The one who started the family curse. The one who got the name of the town changed from Newcomb to Blue Mountain.”
“Right.”
It took him a second. His eyes widened, and he scoured the graves all around him. “Pinhurst
is
Newcomb.”
“Most of the Newcomb family left for Chattanooga when all that happened,” I told him, “and the ones that stayed took the maiden name, Pinhurst.”
“We don't talk about it,” Skid said.
“But I've just realized you wouldn't know that,” I apologized to Andrews. “Sorry.”
“It's a kind of salient fact,” he objected loudly. “Wait.” He rubbed his face. “This means Rud is a Newcomb.”
“Rudyard Pinhurst,” Able chimed in, “is the illegitimate son of Tristan, The Newcomb Dwarf.”
“I've got to sit down,” Andrews managed, looking around for a spot. “This is huge!”
“We kind of take it for granted,” Skid said, not looking anywhere. “Plus, we don't talk about it much, like I say.”
“It's Peyton Place from hell.” Andrews found a convenient stone bench a few steps from where he stood. “Little people can have normal-sized children?”
“Of course,” I answered.
“You said
illegitimate,
” Andrews went on. “Who was the mother?”
Skid looked at me.
“It was always rumored that my mother was the culprit,” I said lightly. “No surprise, she was prodigiously promiscuous, as I have explained to you many times. But in the end a girl from Tifton, Georgia, claimed the child was hers, looking for a bit of the family
money. Tristan had dallied with her when the
Ten Show
toured near her home. Tests were performed; her maternity was confirmed; she was paid and never seen again.”
“Christ.” Andrews shook his head. “No wonder Rud is such a mess.”
“Good-looking boy, though,” Able offered. “You know he and Truvy . .
“She loves
you,
Able,” Skidmore said comfortingly.
“I know,” he answered, but his voice shook a little.
“Well, this is more news than I can absorb in a day,” Andrews said, keeping his seat. “Rud makes scones the way my grandmother used to, and by the way, his father was a famous dwarf.” He peered at me through the dim light. “Any chance you're making this up?” He surveyed the place again. “You'd have a right. It's the perfect stage.”
“What sounds unbelievable on first hearing,” Skid began philosophically, “becomes commonplace in a generation.”
“It don't seem that odd to us,” Able explained.
“Did you ever meet Tristan?” Andrews asked me.
“Toward the end of his life, I've been told. I think I was four or so, don't remember it.”
“And he left the traveling show to your parents when he died.”
“Perpetuating the rumor of his relationship with my mother.”
“I've seen pictures,” Able said. “He wasn't strange-looking. Aside from the height. I mean he was ⦠proportional.”
“His limbs and features were not stunted,” I explained, “and I recall Mother's telling me his laughter was very musical and engaging.”
“This is why you kept telling me all those Newcomb stories.” He was beginning to piece things together. “This is why Rud had all that money, not just from his rich ex-wife. And it explains a lot about Harding Pinhurst, too.” He slumped. “Wait. And Truevine is their cousin. God!”
“Hold on,” Skid told him. “It's not as bad as you think. You can't hardly find anybody up here that's not related to someone else in some kind of way.”
“Weren't but five or six original families settled on Blue Mountain,” Able added.
“Everybody's somebody's cousin,” Skid concluded. “I know it's a bad joke from a Yankee comedian, but if you count fourth or fifth cousins, hell, even Dev and I might be related.”
“Stop.” Andrews held up his right hand. “I've heard enough. The conceptual bliss of ignorance has never been clearer to me.” He stood. “I can't think about this right now. Let's just get on with the show.” He looked about. “Where to?”
“Seems appropriate, under the circumstances,” Skid answered, grinning, “to head for Tristan's grave.”
“Lead on, Macduff,” Andrews said gamely.
He started down the slope, into the Newcomb yard, headed for the largest vault.
Â
A lone figure, swathed in black, sat hunched over the reclining marble image of Tristan Newcomb. Skid was first in the entrance, frozen, transfixed by the tableau. The crypt was sparkling, looked polished. Two torches, depended from iron wall sconces, blazed bright as day. The figure was so still, I thought for a moment it might be a part of the carving, but the head moved when Andrews gasped.
A bone white hand, rough and gnarled, beckoned.
No one moved.
“This carving is very lifelike, I believe,” the voice whispered reverently.
I took a step inside, past the others. “May?”
She looked up. “There is a plethora of fine statuary here in this place, you know, not just the Angel of Death.” She looked back down at the recumbent Tristan as if he were her child: pietà by DalÃ.
“What are you doing here, May?” I asked gently.
“He's just sleeping,” she said serenely.
“May, damn it.” Skidmore powered into the vault. “You like to scared me to death.”
Andrews and I exchanged a lightning glance. He failed to resist the question on both our minds.
“You know this woman?” he said to Skid.
“Yes, God,” he answered, exasperated.
“I thought you were Truvy,” Able said, shaken.
“She's not here,” May said, having difficulty focusing. It was clear she'd had a drink or two.
“You shouldn't be out, sugar,” Skidmore chided, moving closer to her. “It's rainy and cold.”
“Rud said wait for you here after I found Miss Deveroe,” she said grudgingly. “Always do what Rud says do. Funny watching you all traipse around the yard.”
Skid looked back my way, addressed her. “Rud told you to wait for us here? You saw us walking around the graveyard for two hours and you knew where Truevine was?”
“Always do what Rud says,” she repeated, softer. “Supposed to take you to Miss Deveroe.”
“Was he leading us around to
keep
us from finding her?” Andrews asked, instantly suspicious despite scones.
“And he took us to his house to give May time to complete some task,” I mused.
“Where is she?” Skid demanded. “Where are you supposed to take us?”
“So come on.” She stood.
May did not speak further but wafted past us out the door, into the night. We watched mutely for a moment.
“Are you coming or am I going?” she called, her voice receding.
Skid snorted, twitched his head in the direction of her question, and followed. The rest of us seemed to have no choice but to follow.
“You know about May?” Andrews drew up beside Skid and whispered.
“I know it won't do no good to ask her anything when she's drunk,” he muttered. “We just have to follow after and see what happens.”
“In spite of the fact that Rud's been planning something,” I insisted.
“I mean,” Andrews said pointedly, “you know about where she stays.”
“I do. It's a little game we've come to play.” His voice was tired. “I pretend not to notice them; they convince themselves they're eluding
the law. Rud takes good care of them. Aside from how weird it is, I can't see the harm.”
In other cities, states more northern, the law might have been less willing to be eluded. But Skidmore's brand of Christian charity gave enforcement a kindness in our county that was unique. I breathed a silent hope, not quite a prayer, that he would win the coming election if for no other reason than May's well-being.
We followed her along the edge of the yard, close to the fence. The rain had let up, but the clouds refused to break. Now and again they would part, curtains, allowing the spotlight of a rising moon to wash everything white. At the back corner of the yard, the well-worn footpath on the other side came into view.
“May.” I drew up beside her. “This is where you saw Hek Cotage the other day.”
“He's a handsome man,” she said dreamily. “For a minister.”
“He didn't recognize you,” I went on, “until you gave him a bit of the cloth you wear around your neck.”
“It's a pretty fabric,” she answered.
“You didn't mean to,” I said, my voice lowered, “but you frightened him.”
“He does not care to remember much about the time he spent here,” she reasoned. “And therefore he is occasionally discomforted by the thought.”
She found a sag in the fence, stepped over it with a grace more becoming a young girl than a lost soul.
“We're leaving the cemetery?” Skid called.
“If you want to see Miss Truevine we are,” she said, not looking back.
“I'm not sure,” Able said, coming to a halt. “I don't think I want to do this.”
May was already several yards ahead of the rest of us.
“Hold on,” I said to her, but she barely slowed.
“May!” Skid barked.
She stopped, still not looking back. She wobbled a little.
“Deveroes won't come into the cemetery,” Able said, shivering a
little. “But they're out there somewhere, and they want me good. You'uns go on. I'll wait here.”
Skid took him by the elbow and encouraged him to step over the fence.
He did, but his breath was filled with little fear catches.
Without warning, May started up again.
“Where are we going?” I called to her.
She remained mutely intent, headlong into the woods.
I caught up with her as the trail sloped upward into tall cedars, wild purple-leafed rhododendrons.