In a Dark Season (28 page)

Chapter 36

Who Is Little Ricky?

Wednesday, December 27

T
he schoolhouse clock out in the living room had just struck midnight. His eyes had drifted shut and the book in his hands was slipping toward the floor when Elizabeth’s voice at his side brought him back to consciousness.

“I’ve been thinking, Phillip.”

He closed the book, laid it on the bedside table, and watched her through drowsy eyes. She had just emerged from the bathroom, pink with the warmth of the hot bath she invariably soaked in before bed. She unpinned her braid, shook it out, and began to brush her hair—long, dark, silver-highlighted waves that smelled of something sweet and fresh—herbal shampoo, she had told him.

“Maybe the fire at the stand was a cover-up. You said the mattress and pillows were cut open and drawers pulled out. Maybe someone was looking for something. What do you law enforcement types call it—‘tossing the place’? And when they found what they were after—or didn’t find it—they tried to set a fire to cover their tracks.”

“Lizabeth, what would anyone be looking for?” He shoved one pillow aside, laid the other flat, and settled into it with an appreciative grunt. At the foot of the bed, James moved over to Elizabeth’s side and curled himself into a tight little ball. “That building’s been empty for years now, and according to Mac, half the county probably had access to the key. If there was anything valuable, it’s long gone.”

She cracked the windows, letting a thin cold finger of air into the room, then climbed into bed beside him, pulling the covers up high and turning off the reading light.

“Before the whole thing with Amanda today, I went to visit Nola. And, just like you said, she’s improving. But now she’s putting on an act.”

He lay in the dark, lulled by the rhythmical breathing of Ursa and Molly on their beds and trying not to drift off as Elizabeth described Nola’s strange behavior and the neighbor’s observation of a bobbing light in the little stone house. Elizabeth’s words came in slow phrases, as if she too were teetering on the edge of sleep.

“Lee Palatt…didn’t think it was the niece…they’d cleaned out the house and gone back to wherever it was…said it was like someone looking for something.”

Elizabeth’s words sounded farther and farther away. He forced himself back to wakefulness to ask, “When was that? Tracy and what’s-his-name
—
they were around a few days ago. I saw them at the bridge.”

A long silence met his question and he became aware that Elizabeth was asleep, her breath slow and regular. With a sigh of deep content, he spooned his body around hers and felt himself slipping into blissful unconsciousness.

Blissful unconsciousness gave way to strange dreams—once again he was climbing up the silo, his headlamp flashing dizzyingly in all directions. Once again as he achieved the topmost rung and looked down into the echoing interior, his stomach lurched in protest.

Turning away, he saw again the light dancing over the surface of the river and illuminating the winter-bare branches of the ancient trees that lined its bank. Then, overcoming his reluctance, he brought the light to bear on the shining white object below—seemingly hundreds of feet below.
I’ll never make it down there without falling. What the hell was Mac up to, making me climb all this way?
Then, without warning, as he focused his attention on the objects he had been sent to find, it was as if a camera zoomed in, carrying him in a giddy swoop to the bottom of the silo. He found himself standing beside a small tombstone of gleaming marble, topped by a cherub of the same material. The cherub’s face was somber and with one chubby hand it pointed to the words carved on the smooth surface of the stone:
Little Ricky~2004–2006~Our Angel.

“You were dreaming pretty hard last night.”

Returning from letting the dogs out—or, in James’s case,
putting
the dog out—into the drifting snow of another cold morning, Elizabeth was surprised to see Phillip still in bed, the covers pulled up to his chin and his eyes fixed on the ceiling. The frown of concentration on his face suggested deep thought. At last he spoke, posing a question to the air.

“Who’s Little Ricky?”

Elizabeth dropped a kiss on his forehead. “What is this—Trivial Pursuit? Okay, I’ll play. Little Ricky was the kid on
I Love Lucy.
Gramma used to love to watch the reruns. Do I win something?”

His expression was unchanged as he continued to stare at the ceiling. “Last night, right before you fell asleep, you mentioned Nola’s niece and her boyfriend or whatever he is, Rocky—”

“Actually, his first name is Stone.”

“Whatever. The thing is—”

She was relieved to see his face lighten as he interrupted himself to ask incredulously, “Sweet Jesus, did I just say
‘whatever’?
Hanging around all these twenty-something types is ruining my vocabulary. Listen, Lizabeth, I had this dream…”

As Phillip recounted the dream and its origin, Elizabeth listened eagerly, with a steadily growing conviction that this might be leading somewhere.

“What were the dates on that decal you saw on Stone and Tracy’s truck?” she asked.

“2004 to 2006. Same as on the tombstone in the dream.”

The snow had diminished to a few drifting flakes when Elizabeth, a bucket filled with food scraps in the crook of her arm and a jug of hot water in her hand, picked her way carefully down the steep road to the chicken house. With her other hand she wielded a metal-tipped walking stick. The Christmas snow, packed by the passage of her car, was ice-slick in places, and she was forced to proceed crabwise along the shoulders, where a fresh coating afforded a modicum of traction. Cleated boots helped some; her walking stick helped some more. But past experience had taught her that inching along like an old lady was the best way to avoid a fall.

The chickens were still huddled on their perches in the dimness of their house, and they muttered sulkily as she flung open the door to reach the feed can. She scattered the mixed grain on the hay-covered floor, then checked the nest boxes. A single forlorn egg rested in one—frozen solid, a crack running from top to bottom.

Elizabeth tossed the scraps from the chicken bucket onto the frozen ground within the wire enclosure, eliciting a fluttering rush as the birds hurried to investigate. The stainless steel bowl of water was also frozen solid, so she kicked it upside down, poured a little hot water over it to loosen the ice, then righted the bowl and filled it from her jug. The hens instantly abandoned the duck carcass—the last vestiges of the Christmas Day meal—that they had been squabbling over and ran to dip their beaks in the steaming water. Only the rooster, Gregory Peck, stayed by the remains of the duck, picking up and dropping choice bits of meat and making inviting sounds to his harem.

“You’re such a gentleman, Gregory.”
And handsome too.
The proud scarlet comb and great crescent spurs, shiny green-black tail feathers, a white body, densely speckled with black and bronze, curving copper-colored saddle feathers—it wasn’t the stereotypical red-rooster coloring but quite distinctive.

As she stood admiring the strutting bird, an image flashed into her mind.
Red rooster…a stuffed toy rooster in Nola’s cupboard…and toys and children’s books. I wondered who they were for. If Stone and Tracy had a child, it would be Nola’s nephew or niece. If that was Little Ricky, then now that child is dead….

“It seems like more than a coincidence—Tracy shows up and Nola tries to kill herself. What if the news of Little Ricky’s death was the reason…the catalyst?”

Phillip swept the snow from another step before answering. Elizabeth stood on the stone path below him, snowflakes frosting her hat and jacket. Her eyes were dancing with excitement and the tip of her nose was red with the cold.

“Before you go working out some big theory, Sherlock, don’t you think you ought to find out for sure who Little Ricky is? The truck I saw could have been borrowed and it could have been someone else’s Little Ricky. Those toys you saw could have been for…say, some charity thing.”

“I know.” The excitement dimmed. “I need to find out for sure. But I have a real feeling the nursing home won’t give me Tracy’s phone number. And I
can’t
ask Nola—if my theory, as you call it, is correct, mentioning Little Ricky right now could set her back, just when she’s begun to come out of her madness or whatever it was.”

She hurried up the stairs to the porch, the empty chicken bucket clanking on her arm, then turned. “No, I think I need to talk to Nola’s old friend Lavinia and see if she can’t fill in some of the blanks. And I’m pretty sure I know where to find her today.”

The Drovers’ Road XII

The Silver Needle

Alone in the tiny cell and lost in a waking dream, the Professor relived the halcyon days of his journey from Charleston to Warm Springs. The bright-eyed widow he had met at Sherrill’s Tavern, the liberality of her charms, the turtledove dulcitude of her every utterance—all suddenly vanished in a cacophony of hoots and jeers. The Professor started awake to hear once again the rattle of the chain and the squeak of the door.

It could have been no more than an hour since Lydy had been removed to the courtroom, but the man who stumbled back into the cell and dropped onto his bunk might have been decades older than the callow youth who had been escorted away.

His face was void of expression, bloodless lips pressed tight together. For a long moment he stared straight ahead. And then he spoke, as one continuing a narrative after some trivial interruption.

Now, one of the last places we stopped on the Drovers’ Road was Lester’s. Hit was Micahjah Lester owned that place, though it was his wife what run it, far as I could see. She was a great hugeous woman, had six black hairs growin out her chin. She could pick up a drunken drover and fling him out the door thinkin no more of hit than iffen he was a cat. They was a quarrelsome lot there at Lester’s, and all the talk was of states’ rights and abolition and se-cession.

Lester had him some slaves what worked around the place and he kept talkin big about how the government hadn’t ought to take a man’s property from him and how folks in the South had ought to han—

Lydy swallowed the word and began again.—Had ought to run out all them thievin abolitionists. Ol’ Lester, he had him a news sheet and he begun to read aloud from it about how one of them abolitionists, a feller named John Brown, had gathered together a band of white and Negro alike and had broke into an armory. Him and his men killed several white men and captured a number more. But then the army was called out and all the abolitionists that wasn’t killed was captured. And then they was tried and they was…they was done away with.

Lydy, my friend. Please, allow me…The Professor extended one hand and tried to look into Lydy’s eyes. But their blue depths were glazed over and the young man carried on with his account, not heeding his cell mate’s attempt at communication.

Now when Lester said as how North Carolina ought to fight for states’ rights, even if it meant breakin off from the Union, a lot of us allowed as how hit sounded like we’d be fightin to hold on to slaves didn’t none of us have and that hit didn’t make no sense fer a poor man to fight a rich man’s war. Folks was beginnin to take sides and git all riled up but right then Miz Lester come in and tole her husband to shut up speechifyin and come to bed.

That raised a laugh and several fellers made low jokes about Lester and his wife, but we all lay down to rest without no more quarrelin. Hit was a peaceable enough night, though those fer and those agin se-cession never did agree. And the next mornin, atter we’d et and got the hogs back on the road, them hateful little boys of Lester’s hid in the bushes alongside the road and rocked us as we passed by. One of them rocks caught me on the head and raised a great pump knot. I would have gone atter that young un and blistered his hide fer him but we had to keep them hogs a-movin.

The Professor, unable to control his curiosity, leaned across the narrow span of floor and grasped the young man’s arm. Lydy, for the love of God, what happened in the courtroom? he implored.

For a moment Lydy’s dulled blue eyes lightened as he shook off the importunate hand. Then, relapsing into the strange torpor that seemed to have him in its thrall, he answered the Professor’s question.

She was there, settin up at the front, still stitchin on that black and purple quilt and I could feel each of them stitches like hit was a silver needle in my heart. The folks fell quiet and the foreman gave the verdict but Belle, she never looked up oncet, just put in some more stitches.

So I set there, waitin for the judge to speak my sentence and watchin Belle, all the time feeling that thread drawin tighter. The judge called out my name loud and strong and told me to stand. I did, never takin my eyes from Belle, waitin to see would she say ought when the judge passed sentence. I had thought she might.

Then I seen Loyal Revis, the new-elected sheriff, walk over to her and bend down and whisper something in her ear and just then the words roll out from that ol’ judge’s mouth.

And then Belle looks up at the sheriff and smiles, the same way she had one time smiled at me.

Chapter 37

The Funeral Feast

Wednesday, December 27

I
found her in the room where they keep the pay phone…. Well, how was I s’posed to know? Believe me, I like to drop when I seen her. Here I’d just stepped out for a smoke and her sound asleep when I left. I swear I wadn’t out of that room more’n five minutes—ten at the outside.
You
know she ain’t been off that bed ’cept when I get her in a wheelchair and roll her around or when I can get her onto the commode…. No, she had just set in the wheelchair and pulled herself along usin’ her feet…. No, I don’t
believe
she had made any calls.”

Parked in the sun on the barren little patio, Nola sat slumped in the wheelchair. She let her mouth hang slack as she listened to the one-sided conversation, but inwardly she thrilled to the sensation of being keenly aware again, of taking in every detail of her surroundings, of being able to find the
words,
the blessed
words.

On her left a few ugly concrete planters lined haphazardly along the edge of the patio were crowded with plastic flowers: muddy-toned jonquils and peonies incongruously sharing space with gaudy poinsettias. Faded plastic chairs were pulled up to a round glass-and-iron table that sprouted a stained and drooping green-striped umbrella.
A dreary spot, like the rest of this horrible place.

But the fresh air, bracingly cool even in this tiny suntrap, was a revelation: a blessing and a delight after the eternal choking fug of the overheated nursing facility. Nola took deep greedy gulps of it, savoring its keen edge. She looked up, past the sterile concrete and plastic, to feast her eyes on the clear sky that had miraculously appeared as the early morning snowfall ended. The unblemished blue square above her head was of piercing azure intensity. As she stared into its depths, tears of joy sprang into her eyes.

…and the living air,

And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:

A motion and a spirit that impels

All thinking things…

Thinking things.
I
am a thinking thing again. And those lines are Wordsworth’s and they are from “Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey.”
It was all she could do to keep from letting out a wild hoot of laughter, from bringing the fat Michelle to heel with a well-aimed word.

I wanted to die but I was wrong. Wrong to seek death when I should have sought retribution. After all these years…But now…which one wants me drugged and out of the way? To whom is Michelle speaking? If I knew that…I must wait.

“Yes, I been giving her the medicine like you told me. Yes, the full dose, mornin’ and evening.” Michelle swung around, her piggy eyes coming to bear on Nola. “She’s quiet as can be now—looks like she’ll be ready to go back to bed and stay put…. Oh, I
will…
now that I know what this naughty girl might get up to. You just leave it to me.”

The final lugubrious strains of the organ died away as the funeral director stepped to the front of the chapel. He raised one manicured hand for attention.

“The family of Payne Morton wishes me to thank all of you for your many kindnesses during this trying time. Mrs. Lavinia Holcombe, godmother of the deceased, has asked me to say that there will be a reception for all our departed brother’s friends and family at her house on Holcombe Hill immediately following this service.”

Elizabeth gathered up her winter coat and purse and filed out of the pew to join the others heading toward the parking lot. Just ahead of her, two broad-beamed women kept up a whispered running commentary.

“It broke his mama’s heart that Payne’s own church wouldn’t have the service there, but the elders come down strong against it, it being suicide.”

“And then not even to have a casket nor a real funeral…But there wadn’t nothing left of his head but the face—like a watermelon had rolled off the truck and busted flat open was what I heard.”

“Now, Racine, you coulda gone all day without tellin’ that.”

“You’re going
where?”
Phillip had given her an incredulous look when she appeared in the living room in her going-somewhere-serious clothes. Black wool pants, black low-heeled boots, a lavender turtleneck, and a black blazer had been hastily unearthed, and she had twisted her hair into a knot at the nape of her neck.

“To the Good Shepherd Funeral Home. There’s a memorial service for Payne Morton at eleven.”

“I didn’t think you really knew—”

“We spoke on the phone. And then I did meet him once at the Layton Facility.” Elizabeth had held out the latest issue of the
Marshall County Guardian,
folded open to the obituaries page. “The family will receive visitors with a reception at Holcombe Hill afterwards. Evidently Big Lavinia was his godmother.”

“And…?”

“And I hope that in the general flow of reminiscence that goes on after funerals around here, I might pick up some information about Nola. She went to his church and I would imagine a lot of her fellow churchgoers will be there. And of course, there’s Big Lavinia—Nola’s oldest friend. It would be a chance for me to have a word with her—to see if she knows about Little Ricky.”

Cars and pickup trucks were parked all along the edge of the sweeping drive that curved past the white-pillared house on Holcombe Hill, and a steady stream of people climbed the stone steps and passed through the red-painted double front doors. Elizabeth pulled in behind a gleaming new Mercedes and joined the others making their way up the drive to the house.

“Welcome…thank you for coming…Susie darlin’, the family’s back there in the den and I know they’d want to see you…welcome…so good of you to come…oh, Mary Ellen, I just have to hug your neck…welcome…”

In the broad entry hall stood Big Lavinia, dispensing hospitality to all comers. As she took Elizabeth’s proffered hand, her eyes narrowed and then, almost instantly, she made the connection. “Miz…Goodweather, wasn’t it? My poor Nola’s friend. But I hadn’t realized you were acquainted with the Mortons?”

Mercifully the press of people behind her prevented further conversation. Mumbling something about having met the pastor recently and wanting to pay her respects, Elizabeth was released to move on to a second line before the table in the center of the hall, where an immense arrangement of white lilies loomed over an open visitation book.

She took her place in
this
line, wondering if coming to the funeral and reception had been a good idea.
Surely Miz Holcombe will leave the door eventually and I’ll get a chance to ask about Little Ricky.
As it came her turn to sign her name, she glanced quickly down the signatures, recognizing name after name of county politicos, educators, professionals, businessmen—the spectrum of the well-to-do and well connected.
I wonder, are they here because of the Mortons or because any event at Holcombe Hill is the place to be? Pastor Morton seemed much more…more of the people.

As she scrawled a semilegible signature, a name a few lines above hers caught her attention.
HOLLIS NOONAN
, the bold black pen strokes proclaimed.
That’s the guy who spoke at the meeting, the developer who wants the Gudger House. And the doctor, the brother of the deceased—he’s a partner in the company—RIP—no, RPI. As are the Holcombe brothers, or at least the younger one, according to Ben.

She moved on, caught up in the flow of mourners who seemed drawn to a large doorway on the left. A matronly woman at her elbow beamed. “You’re Elizabeth Goodweather, aren’t you? I met you at that quilt exhibit you put together for the library last year. It’s real nice to see you again!”

The smile faded as the woman recalled the reason for this event. She lowered her voice slightly and continued. “Quite a turnout, don’t you think, for poor Payne? Did you know him well?”

When Elizabeth explained that she was only an acquaintance, the woman seemed relieved to be able to speak more freely. “Well, of course, some are saying he always did have a dark side to him. There was that trouble back when he was still in school, but though there was a lot of talk, nothing ever came of it. And he really seemed to find himself when he went to seminary. You know, his family’s quite well off but he always lived on his pastor’s salary. He and his wife and those two darling babies just barely scrape along. And what she’ll do, I can’t imagine. Though I expect the family’ll convince her to accept some help now.”

The tide of funeralgoers had swept them into a large formal dining room. There a long linen-draped table was covered with an assortment of buffet offerings. Elizabeth’s new friend smiled delightedly and picked up a plate. “I never
can
resist funeral food! There’s Nell Bledsoe’s Co’-Cola Ham…I reckon someone got Sadie to make all those little biscuits. And I know Big Lavinia will have had her Mexican girl make a flan…ooh…and that looks like Kaye’s chocolate Kahlúa cake down there—only the best thing you ever put in your mouth! You better get you a plate—I expect they want us to keep moving on through—we’ll find us a spot to perch back in the family room.”

Oh, boy, do I feel like a…what was it that friend of Sam’s used to call himself…a
schnorrer
? I hardly knew the deceased and I’m getting a free lunch. But Miss Lady here is just what I was hoping for—one of the talkative kind.

Following Miss Lady down the table, Elizabeth helped herself to some of the special dishes so loudly praised by her companion. She took a ham biscuit and several ladylike little sandwiches, a scoop of what was described as “Aileen’s Macaroni with Four Cheeses—you’ve already put on two pounds just by looking at it.”

Maybe something green,
she decided, starting to serve herself from a huge bowl of baby spinach leaves decorated with jewel-like dried cranberries and toasted pecan halves.

“I’m surprised anyone’d bring that—it was just a few months ago people were dying from
E. coli–
infected spinach. One of our own congregation lost a precious little nephew. They pulled that stuff right out of the stores for quite a while.” Miss Lady took a serving of three-bean salad. “I heard even washing won’t get the germs off. Wasn’t it the saddest thing—all the good little children dying from eating their spinach.”

Elizabeth hesitated, then bypassed the vinaigrette-glossed leaves and followed Miss Lady into an adjoining room.
A nephew,
she thought.

“Are you talking about—” But she was speaking to the woman’s back and her words went unheard.

The big room was swarming with people, eating and talking. A buzz of conversation was steadily growing louder as newcomers added their voices. Comfortable overstuffed sofas and chairs brimmed with people; the long stone hearth of the fireplace provided seating for more. Others stood, a plate in one hand, a glass in the other, hopelessly looking for a surface to put something down on.

“The window seat. Those fellas are getting up now. Let’s us scoot over there and grab it.”

Again Elizabeth followed her chance acquaintance, admiring the decisive action with which the older woman cut out two teenage girls, cell phones to their ears, who were making for the same spot.

They had just settled when the sound of shouting was heard from the front hall. Instantly, heads swiveled to the doorway and all conversation stopped except for one very deaf old man who went on with his reminiscence unhindered.

The roomful of people listened in stunned silence to the ensuing antiphony.

“Respect for the dead?” In the hallway a woman’s high-pitched voice rose to a manic shriek. “You make me
laugh!
Let me tell you about that so-called—”

“…of course, Payne’s folks still have Pritchard—now
that
boy’s done ’em proud.” The aged man, sitting in a wingback chair and addressing the young woman who occupied the ottoman before him, thumped his cane for emphasis, not seeming to notice his audience’s lack of response.

“God
damn you all!”
The unseen woman’s shrill voice broke into gasping sobs. Murmuring and a movement of feet could be heard, and those nearest the door craned their heads to get a better view. The rest stayed fixed in their places, waiting for the woman’s crying to stop.

“I saw how he’d failed in the past little bit,” the old man asserted. “Couldn’t hardly get through his sermon and mumbled worse than usual.”

“No, you bitch, I
won’t
leave quietly! I have things that need to be said in a public place. And all the people who need to hear them are here, all except for that dead hypocrite—he made a solemn promise and then took the easy way out. Just because you’re a Holcombe, you think—”

There was the sound of a scuffle, a wail of anger and frustration, the opening and closing of a door, and Lavinia Holcombe’s voice was raised in clear, calm tones. “Please listen, all of you. I want to ask that we just go on as we were, in respect for the departed and for his family. This unfortunate young woman has obviously been drinking. My men are escorting her off the property. Please, let’s all forget this unfortunate incident; there’s lovely food in the dining room and the Morton family is receiving close friends in the den.”

The hubbub of voices resumed, louder than ever as the deaf old man in the armchair drew his monologue to a close. “Poor fella, I wish he could of seen how many turned out to pay their respects and that he could of heard all the fine tributes. Once we’re gone, memories is all that’s left.”