Bridge to Cutter Gap / Silent Superstitions / The Angry Intruder (30 page)

Christy closed her diary. It had been quite a day. She thought of the grand piano in the main room downstairs and smiled. She knew Miss Alice was right about the donations. But now that they
had
the piano, Christy was awfully glad they were going to get a chance to use it.

A party—a “jollification,” as Ruby Mae called it—would be just the thing to distract the children from the recent pranks and to show them that they had nothing to fear from the mission. Perhaps she'd invite the children over to the mission house after school on Friday to help decorate for the party.

Maybe after that, Christy thought hopefully, the strange pranks would end at last, for once and for all.

Seven

S
he was so beautiful, Wraight thought. Lizette Holcombe had to be the prettiest girl in the whole, wide state of Tennessee.

He stood in the corner of the mission house parlor with Lundy and Zach and Smith. Miz Christy had invited all the students in after school finished today, so they could help her decorate for the big jollification tomorrow night.

He didn't see as there was any point in going to the party. He couldn't dance worth a hoot. And with his dulcimer all broken to bits, he couldn't play along with Jeb and the preacher and the other music-makers. Besides, Lizette would be so beautiful that everyone would want to dance with her. John Spencer, for one. Wraight knew John was sweet on her.

Wraight wondered if John knew pretty things to say to Lizette, the things girls liked. Fancy words about flowers and birds and love. Wraight didn't know any of that sugar-sweet romancing talk. About the only thing he knew to get Lizette's attention was to throw snowballs at her. That always made her laugh, all right.

He'd gone and made a fool of himself when she was trying to help him with his spelling. He'd growled at her like an old bear because he couldn't understand what she was trying to explain.

When that happened—and it happened a whole lot at school—he felt all tight and coiled up inside. He got angry and did things he didn't mean to do, just like his Pa did things he didn't mean to do sometimes.

Wraight watched while Lizette and Bessie and Ruby Mae tried on hats out of the barrel of clothes the mission had for sale. Lizette put on a big floppy straw one with a pink flower on it.

“What do you think, Wraight?” she called to him. “Do I look like a city-gal?”

“You look . . . ” Wraight hesitated. He glanced over to Lundy for help, but Lundy just gave his usual smirk. “You look fine,” Wraight managed.

Lizette sort of half-smiled, and Wraight breathed a sigh of relief. She was talking to him, at least, so that must mean she wasn't still mad about the way he'd practically bitten her head off when she'd tried to help him with his spelling.

Well, that was something, anyway.

Lundy elbowed him. “Why is it you get all tongue-tied 'round Lizette? You sweet on her or somethin'?”

“I ain't sweet on nobody.”

“John Spencer's got his eye on her, anyways,” Lundy said. “Course, why she'd pay any mind to that puny little varmint—”

“Don't talk that way about John,” Zach spoke up. “He ain't so bad.”

Lundy socked Zach in the shoulder, hard. “Hush up, weasel face. I ain't talkin' to you.”

“Don't hit Zach,” Wraight said, clenching his fist. “Never.”

Lundy stepped closer, until he was just inches from Wraight's face. “You a-tellin' me what to do?”

Wraight stared past Lundy. He clenched his teeth. The anger boiled up inside him. But he didn't say a word.

“Thought so.”

Wraight leaned back against the wall. Lundy was three inches taller than he was, and much heavier. He never lost a fight, never, and Wraight knew there was no point in starting one now. Lundy was mean. And he was a good shot. Too good, though not as good as Wraight. Still, around the school, what Lundy wanted, Lundy got. Everybody did what he said, even Wraight. That's just the way it was.

Across the room, Lizette and Ruby Mae were dancing with each other, giggling and carrying on the way girls did. Miz Christy was helping some of the littlest children hang up drawings they'd made for decorations. Miss Ida, the grouchy one with the sharp tongue, was rushing about with a feather duster.

“Want to dance, Wraight?” Lizette called as she whirled past, nearly knocking over a hat rack. She had a scarf around her neck. It flowed behind her, just like a flag in the wind. It was the color of her eyes, as dark and big as night itself.

He wanted to say something just right, when she whirled past again, but all he could think of was, “I can't dance.”

He wished so badly that he still had his dulcimer. He'd played it for her once, under a tree during recess. He'd sung a ballad his ma had taught him, one with all the fancy words about love and such that he didn't know how to say himself. When he was singing or playing his music, everything made sense.

He felt smart when he sang, like his feelings got shaped into notes. He couldn't spell, couldn't add, but he could make the four strings of his dulcimer sing as sweet as the first spring bluebird. And he wasn't exactly sure, but it had seemed to him that when he played, Lizette had looked at him in a different way. His heart got all stirred up, just remembering it.

Of course, he didn't have his dulcimer, not anymore. His pa had smashed it good, one night when the moonshine had gotten the better of him. Wraight could still remember that night like it had just happened. It made him knot up inside, just thinking about it.

Wraight's pa had been mad at him because Wraight hadn't chopped enough wood to keep the fire going. “You ain't got a lick of sense in you, boy,” he'd screamed, and then he'd grabbed the dulcimer right out of Wraight's hands. He'd held it high up in the air, waving it back and forth. “I'll get me some firewood right quick,” he'd said, his voice all slow and dark with the moonshine.

Then, while Wraight had watched in horror, he'd slammed the little dulcimer against a table. It had broken into a hundred pieces. Splinters of wood covered the floor. It was like watching a living thing die, right before your eyes.

Wraight had tossed the pieces of wood in the fireplace for kindling. He hadn't cried. Hadn't said a word. There wasn't any point in crying.

He'd kept the strings, though. Why, he didn't know. He just couldn't let them go.

He gazed over at the new piano. Miz Christy had been mighty proud about getting it for the mission. She'd said the piano was full of wires inside, long ones. When you pushed on one of the little white or black boxes in a long row— she'd called them keys—a sound happened.

It would pleasure him something fierce to be able to play that big instrument. If he could get a sound out of it, even learn a song or two, maybe then Lizette would listen. Maybe she'd remember how he'd sung and played for her before.

He made his way over to the piano bench. “What are you up to, Wraight Holt?” Lundy called.

Wraight cringed. Lundy was like a dark shadow he could never get rid of. Always causing trouble, always looking to make life harder than it already was. Lundy hated the other students, hated the school, hated Miz Christy. Come to think of it, there wasn't much Lundy Taylor did seem to like. How many times had Wraight heard Lundy talk about getting rid of the school, and Miz Christy with it?

But the truth was, sometimes Wraight felt that way, too.

“I'm just lookin', is all,” Wraight called back to Lundy. “Let me be.”

He eased onto the bench. It was slippery. He let his fingers slide over the white keys. They were smooth, too. Miz Christy had said they were made of ivory, from elephants' tusks, but he hardly saw how that was possible. She'd said tusks were sharp, like knives. And these keys were as smooth and cool as ice.

Gently he pressed down on a key. Nothing happened. No sound. Nothing like the sweet, sad twang of a dulcimer string.

He pressed again. This time a sound did come, a low, smooth, easy sound that made him start. It came from deep in the belly of the piano, far from his touch. How could that be?

He moved his hand far up the keys. Again he pushed. This time, the sound was sweet and high as a raindrop in a pool of water. He blinked. It was a plain and simple miracle, near as he could figure.

“Miss Ida,” Lundy's taunting voice met his ears. “Wraight Holt is playing on that there music-maker.” Miss Ida bustled over and slapped at Wraight's hand. “Get away from there,” she said. “That's for people who know how to play. People who've had lessons, which I venture to say you have not.”

She slammed down the black lid and the magic keys disappeared from view, as if they'd never been there. Behind him, Wraight heard Lundy's snarling laugh.

Wraight glanced across the room. Lizette was standing with John. She was watching Wraight, and the look in her eyes was nothing like the look he remembered from that day under the tree.

He knew all too well what that look was. Her eyes said she felt sorry for him.

“Isn't this the perfect evening for a party?” Christy said to David as they walked along the porch of the mission house.

It was late Saturday afternoon, and the open house was already getting underway. The sun had just begun to sink. Its brilliant red rays seemed to set the mission house windows on fire. The day had been surprisingly warm for March. Patches of snow still remained, but much of it had melted, turning the yard to mud. Nevertheless, families were already gathering in the yard, laughing and hugging and gossiping.

“Jeb Spencer's already got his dulcimer going,” David said. “I'm going to have to round up my ukelele so we can get a duet started.”

“The yard's not exactly the best place for dancing,” Christy pointed out. “I'd planned on the party taking place inside.” She grinned. “Of course, I'm sure Miss Ida would be very relieved if everybody stayed out here.”

“The temperature will drop soon enough,” David said. “Then everyone will head inside.” He paused to gaze at her, just long enough that Christy felt a blush creep up her neck. “By the way,” David said, “have I mentioned how very nice you look tonight?”

Christy adjusted the blue bow in her hair. “You look pretty nice, yourself,” she said shyly, just as Ruby Mae came out the front door.

David cleared his throat. “Well, I guess I should go find my ukelele,” he said. He nudged Christy with his elbow. “Think later on we could talk you into playing a tune or two on the piano?”

“I'm not so sure that's a good idea, Preacher,” Ruby Mae said. “Miz Christy was a-practicin' this afternoon. Scraped my eardrums somethin' fierce.”

Christy laughed. “I am a little rusty.”

“After all the work it took getting that piano inside the mission house, I can't bear to think it's going to go to waste,” David said. “We'd better find somebody around here who can play it!”

While David went to find his ukelele, Ruby Mae and Christy watched the party from the porch. Soon Fairlight joined them.

She was wearing a lavender crocus in her hair. Little Guy dozed peacefully in her arms, his head on her shoulder.

“Listen to this,” she said to Christy. “F-A-I-R-L-I-G-H-T.”

“Fairlight, that's wonderful!” Christy exclaimed. “You really are a quick study.”

“I can already spell all the names in the family. 'Cept I keep forgettin' to put that there
H
in
JOHN
.”

“Where is John, anyway?” Christy asked. “I haven't seen him.”

“Over yonder,” Ruby Mae said. She pointed toward the schoolhouse. “Moonin' over Lizette, like always.”

“Poor John,” Fairlight said. “I fear he's pinin' for her bad.”

“Crazy thing is,” Ruby Mae said, lowering her voice, “Bessie Coburn's had her eye on John ever since school started. Told me every time he says howdy to her she plumb near walks on air the rest of the day.”

“Are you sure?” Fairlight asked.

“Course I'm sure. Bessie's my best friend, and she told me after I promised never to breathe a word of it to nobody—” Suddenly Ruby Mae's eyes went wide. “Confound it all! I'd best be movin' on, before my mouth gets me into any more trouble.”

Without another word, she dashed off. Fairlight and Christy laughed as they watched her go. “Looks like David found his ukelele,” Christy said, pointing across the yard.

David and Jeb were sitting next to each other on two overturned crates. As they strummed and sang, more and more people began to clap and dance, wheeling in circles on the muddy grass.

“Jeb loves that dizzifyin' music,” Fairlight said. “He'll strum all night long, if'n we let him.”

“I have the feeling David will, too,” Christy said.

Miss Alice poked her head out the door. “This seems to have turned into an outdoor party,” she said.

“Oh, they'll be in soon enough, Miz Alice,” Fairlight said. “Once the dark falls and the air starts a-chillin'.”

A tiny, bent woman passed by the porch. She was leaning on a wooden walking stick for support. She paused, tapping her stick on the porch railing to get Christy's attention.

“Granny O'Teale!” Christy exclaimed. Not too long ago, Granny would never have dared set foot at the mission. Christy was very pleased to see her here tonight.

“For a city-gal,” Granny said, “you give a mighty fine jollification.”

“Thank you, Granny,” Christy said. “I'm awfully glad you came.”

“There's food and such a-comin', right?”

“Oh, yes. Lots of it.”

“Then I reckon I'm glad I came, too.”

Christy watched Granny hobble off. “Wasn't this a wonderful idea, Miss Alice?” Christy asked.

“Yes, it was,” Miss Alice agreed. “A fine idea. By the way, I'll be back in the kitchen with Miss Ida, if you need me.”