Riding the Flume (5 page)

Francie hesitated. “My father gave me permission to come,” she said at last. “He knows I'm here.” Hopefully that was truth, she thought. Mama had no doubt told him.

His smiled broadened. “Your father owns the hotel,” he said, “not the lumber company.” He put his hand on the ladder. “This is private property.”

Francie could feel her heart start beating faster. Was he going to climb the ladder? If he was angry because she was trespassing, why was he smiling? She put her hand in her pocket and felt the little bag with Carrie's note. Closing her hand over it, she looked down at him. “We often come here for picnics,” she said. That wasn't strictly true: Other people had picnics here, the Cavanaughs stopped having picnics when Carrie died. But Mr. Granger wouldn't know that, would he?

“People break the law all the time,” he said. He put one foot on the lowest rung of the ladder. “It's only a problem if they get caught.” The sun flashed on his glasses, making his eyes invisible.

Francie looked at his hands on the ladder and suddenly remembered how the rung had broken under her weight yesterday. Would the ladder hold him if he tried to climb? Should she warn him? If it broke under him, he'd be madder than ever. She had taken a breath to tell him the ladder wasn't safe, when she heard someone running down the path.

“Francie!” She looked up. It was Charlie, coming to get the note. “What are you doing here?”

As soon as he heard Charlie's voice, Mr. Granger stepped away from the ladder. He brushed off his hands
and pulled out his pocket watch to check the time. “Meeting your sweetheart?” he said softly. “Did your father give you permission to do that, too?”

Francie stared down at the man, confused and suddenly angry. “Charlie's my cousin!” she retorted.

Charlie came around the tree stump and stopped, his smile fading when he saw Mr. Granger. “Afternoon,” he said, nodding.

“Good afternoon, Charlie,” Mr. Granger said. “Nice evening for a walk.”

“Yes, sir.” Charlie shoved his hands into his pockets. He looked up at Francie. “I didn't know you'd be here, cuz,” he said to her. “I thought . . .” He glanced at Mr. Granger. “I thought you had to work at the hotel.”

“Father said I could have some time off,” she said, watching Mr. Granger.

The man's eyes flickered behind his glasses. “Well, I'll leave you two young people to your fun.” He smiled up at Francie again, turned, and walked back along the path to the road.

Charlie followed him around the stump and he and Francie waited in silence until the man disappeared over the top of the rise.

“What was he doing here?” Charlie frowned up at Francie. He must have come straight here after work. His clothes were filthy, his face was streaked with dirt, and
dried blood marked a scratch on one cheek, probably from a low-hanging limb. Charlie's job was to ride on top of the long chain of logs as they were dragged down the logging chute from the woods to the mill, and if his only injuries were scratches he was lucky.

“I don't know. Are you coming up?” She patted a place beside her on the stump.

Charlie took one look at the ladder and shook his head. “That would never hold me,” he said. “It might be the same one Carrie and I used to reach the hole, but I'm a lot bigger now and it's a lot older. You come down, and I'll catch you if it breaks. Did you get Carrie's note?”

“I've got it,” Francie said, climbing down. She tested each rung of the ladder before she put her weight on it. When she was standing on the ground, she handed Charlie the bag.

He took it, smoothing the cloth with his fingers. He turned it over several times, and then cleared his throat. “Yep. We used to put messages in here.” He looked at Francie and blinked. “Would you do me a favor?”

“Sure.” Francie smiled at him.

“Take that comb out of your hair.” He looked away. “With your hair up like that you look so much like her I feel like I'm the one she's haunting.” Then he laughed. “Do you mind?”

Francie shook her head and unpinned her hair. “No,”
she said, sighing. “I just wish . . .” She turned to him. “Are we trespassing?”

“What?” Charlie stared at her. “Now?”

“The lumber company owns this land,” Francie said. “Is it against the law for us to be here? Mr. Granger said it was.”

“Did he?” Charlie looked back toward the path. “I guess it is private land,” he said. “Lots of people come here, but nobody's made a stink about it before. Is that why Granger was here?”

Francie shrugged. “Maybe he really was just out for a walk.” She leaned up against the ladder, and then turned to look at it. “I thought he was going to climb up—he was just starting to when you came.”

Charlie shook his head. “He weighs more than I do. All he'd have to do is look at that ladder to know it would break under him.”

Francie looked at him. “Then he was trying to make me think he was going to come up. Why?” She shuddered. “It was kind of scary. I didn't know what he was going to do—push me off the stump? He just kept smiling.”

Charlie grunted. “Granger's a mean one. He likes to scare people he thinks are weaker than he is.” His eyes twinkled. “What he doesn't know is that you could have climbed down and been miles away before he'd even run a few steps. I'll bet you're still the fastest runner around here.”

Francie bit her lip. “I haven't had much occasion to run lately.”

Charlie nodded, seeming to understand. “I thought you weren't allowed out here anymore.”

Francie grinned. “I talked Father into a slight reprieve.” She explained about Mr. Court wanting her to count the tree rings.

“That might take quite awhile,” he said. He gave her a wink. “And I think he wants you to count some of the others as well, doesn't he?”

“We'll see how long it takes to count one,” she answered, trying to look serious. She took the bag, extracted the note, and handed it to him. “What do you think it means?”

Charlie puzzled over the words. “Well,” he said, “I know where Turkey Fork is.” He pushed his hat back and scratched his head. “At least I used to know. Your sister made up the name—we saw a turkey there once, though you hardly ever see them in the mountains. It was on Connor's Creek, where the streambed branched.” He rubbed his chin, thinking. “Or was it Dead Man's Creek?” He shrugged. “I can't remember, Francie.” He looked at the paper again. “It's her handwriting, though. I'm sure of that.”

“Do you think you'd recognize Turkey Fork if you got there?” Francie touched his arm. “Could we just walk along the creek till we found it?”

“Not if it was Dead Man's Creek,” Charlie answered, “that one's all dried up. Hasn't had water running in it
since they dammed the river. But if it was Connor's Creek, maybe we could.” He looked at the sun, riding just above the top of the farther ridge. “It'll be dark soon. What about Sunday afternoon? It's supposed to be a nice day, and it probably wouldn't take us more than two hours to walk the lower part of Connor up to the first fork and back.” He handed her back the note. “What do you think we'll find?”

“I don't have any idea,” Francie said, surprised that he would give up his Sunday afternoon to go searching the woods with her. The fact that he actually seemed interested made her nervous. What if it was nothing? He'd think she was being silly.

Charlie shrugged. “Probably nothing,” he said as if he'd read her thoughts. “Your sister was a great one for secrets.” He tugged on the brim of his hat, pulling it down on his forehead. It made him look older, more serious. “Mostly they were little secrets, like the time she found a den of fox pups.” He touched the bag in Francie's hand. “But somehow I feel like we owe it to her to try to find out what this one was. It's kind of like a message from beyond the grave.”

Francie suddenly remembered her dream, and she shivered. “You don't really believe that, do you?”

Charlie shook his head. “No, I don't. Not really.” Francie thought his voice sounded almost regretful. “But
I'd like to know what she meant, wouldn't you?”

“We'll probably never find out.” Suddenly impatient, she turned her back on him and started walking up the path. “Come on . . . if I don't get home in time to help Mama, I won't be allowed to come back.”

Charlie ran to catch up with her. “What about her diary? She might have written something about it. Did you check her diary?”

Francie spun around so fast she nearly ran into him. “What diary?”

Charlie caught her arm and kept them both from falling in a heap. “Carrie's diary. It had a dark blue leather binding and gold letters. She used to bring it out here and write something almost every day—all about animals and plants and things. You can't have forgotten that!”

But she had forgotten. Francie stared at him, but instead she saw Carrie, sitting on a fallen log, chewing at the end of her pencil and staring off into space. On her lap was the diary. “Yes,” she whispered, “I remember now.” How could she have forgotten? She had always longed to write, too, even before she knew how, but Carrie would only let her touch the soft leather cover . . . sometimes. “What do you suppose happened to it?”

Charlie shrugged. “You didn't find it after . . .” he began, and then swallowed. “It wasn't with her things?”

Francie felt the lump rise in her own throat. “They
wouldn't even go into her room for a long time.” She remembered that—how she had felt compelled to tiptoe past, as if her sister was sleeping eternally behind that closed door. “Finally Mama did have all her clothes washed and ironed. Then she gave them to the poor.” That was another thing she remembered, Carrie's dresses hanging out on the line to dry. Mama and Mrs. Parker did it all in one day when Father was gone to St. Joseph. “They must have gone through her things, eventually, because Mama asked me if I wanted her locket. But I never saw her diary, and I forgot all about it.”

Charlie rubbed his chin. “I think she kept it hidden,” he said slowly. “She always said it was to keep you from prying into her things.” He put his hand on Francie's shoulder almost in apology. “But it was really because she loved secrets. She knew you'd never have read it without asking.”

Francie felt her face go hot, but when she saw the sorrow stamped on Charlie's handsome face, the angry words died on her lips. She sighed, instead. “I never could understand her,” she said. “And she never did understand me, either.” Her eyes stung with unshed tears, and she turned away. “I've got to get back. It's getting dark. Father will be worried.”

Charlie tugged again on his hat brim. “I'll walk back with you,” he said. “Uncle James knows I'd not let anything happen to you.”

Francie nodded. It was true. Father had let Carrie wander the mountains alone even in the dark, but Francie always had to have someone to take care of her. She gritted her teeth to keep from saying so out loud and followed her cousin back to town.

I
t was late when Francie finally finished helping her mother in the kitchen and was allowed to go upstairs to her room. She didn't tiptoe past Carrie's door anymore, but out of habit she always walked quietly. She had her hand on the doorknob of her own room when she suddenly made up her mind. Turning back, she put her hand on Carrie's doorknob. Would the door be locked? Her heart began to beat faster. Nobody had ever said she couldn't go into her sister's room, but she had never done so before. For six years the door had stood firmly closed.

Francie knew that sometimes her mother went in. Once in a very great while she heard faint crying from behind the door. It was never mentioned, and somehow Francie knew her mother would not appreciate her acknowledging it.

Now Francie turned the knob. It clicked, and with a little push the door swung open. With a quick glance over her
shoulder to be sure nobody was coming up the stairs, Francie stepped into her sister's room and shut the door behind her.

Francie stood with her back against the door, waiting until her eyes got used to the darkness. The air was still and smelled musty. “They never open the windows,” Francie mumbled. She felt her way to Carrie's bed—her furniture matched Francie's own, and the room was a mirror image of Francie's—and sat down. Her hands found the small nightstand and the oil lamp on it. Inside the drawer Francie found matches. She lit one and held the flame up to examine the lamp. “Surely there won't be oil in it,” she said aloud, but she was wrong. The lamp was full of oil, and the glass chimney was shining—as if someone had just cleaned it recently. She touched the match to the wick, then quickly turned the flame down low. The drapes were pulled tightly closed, but Francie wasn't taking any chances. She didn't want to have to explain her presence here.

The room didn't quite look as if nobody lived in it—the bed with its plump pillows was covered with a thin comforter, although Francie could feel that there weren't any blankets or sheets under it—just the stiff ticking of the feather bed. The dresser had a crocheted scarf spread out on top, several colored bottles, and another lamp. The wardrobe door was closed, but Francie knew if she opened it she would find it empty. She ran her hand over the
smooth wood of the nightstand and then looked at the tip of her finger in the lamplight—no dust. Someone cleaned in here, then.

But it certainly didn't look like Carrie lived here. When Carrie was alive, her room had almost exploded in a kind of cheerful chaos. Clothes were thrown over chairs and the bed spindles or dropped on the floor in a heap. Old birds' nests graced all the windowsills, and pinecones balanced in a line on the top of the wainscoting. Rocks glittering with strains of quartz and mica were piled on the dresser, and feathers bristled out in all directions from behind the mirror. Carrie's bookcase was always half empty because she left the books stacked on the floor with flowers and leaves pressed between the pages.