Serena (31 page)

A
T LEAST THERE ARE MOUNTAINS.
T
HAT WAS
what Rachel told herself as she and Jacob left the boarding house and walked up Madison Street. She stepped around a puddle. The rain that had fallen all day continued to fall as evening settled over the city. A gap in the buildings allowed Rachel a glimpse at the snow-capped peak of Mount Rainier. She lingered a few moments, took in the vista as she might a mouthful of cold spring water on a hot day.

She remembered the flat vastness of the midwest, particularly a depot in Kearney, Nebraska, where they’d waited two hours to change trains. She had taken Jacob for a walk down the town’s one street. The houses quickly thinned out, then only fields of harvested wheat and corn beneath a wide sky. A landscape where no mountains rose to harbor you, give you shelter. She’d wondered how people could live in such a
place. How could you not feel that everything, even your own heart, was laid bare?

Rachel walked toward the café where from five to midnight she was paid twenty cents an hour to wash dishes and clean off tables. Mr. and Mrs. Bjorkland let her lay Jacob on a quilt in the kitchen corner, and each night Mrs. Bjorkland gave Rachel big helpings of food to take home. Rachel passed enough destitute men and women on the streets every day to know how lucky she was to have a job, not to be hungry and in rags, especially after being in Seattle less than a month.

A car horn startled her, and she knew if she lived here the rest of her life she’d never get used to the busyness of town life, how something was always coming and going and whatever that something was always had a noise. Not soothing like the sound of a creek or rain on a tin roof or a mourning dove’s call, but harsh and grating, no pattern to it, nothing to settle the mind upon. Except in the early morning, those moments before the city waked with all its grime and noise. She could look out the window at the mountains, and their stillness settled inside her like a healing balm.

Rachel crossed the street. On the other side, a policeman with a nightstick walked his beat. Farther down the block, a group of dispirited men lined up outside the Salvation Army building, waiting to go inside for a meal of beans and white bread, a soiled tick mattress to lay on the building’s basement floor. A shock of curly red hair caught her eye at the front of the line. Rachel looked closer and saw the tall gangly body, no gray golf cap but the blue and black mackinaw coat. She hoisted Jacob in her arms and walked quickly down the street, but by the time she got there he was already inside.
If it was him,
because Rachel was already beginning to doubt what her eyes had seen, or thought they’d seen. She considered trying to get inside, but as she stepped closer to the entrance several of the men in line stared hard at her.

“The women’s mission is over on Pike Street,” a man with his front teeth missing said gruffly.

Rachel looked across the street at the theatre and checked the big
clock at the center of the movie marquee, saw she had to leave or be late for work. As she walked back up the sidewalk toward the café, Rachel told herself she was just imagining things. Passing in front of the Esso station, she stepped over a puddle where gas and water swirled together to make an oily rainbow. The rain began to fall harder, and she quickened her pace, made it to the café door just as the bottom of the sky fell out and the rain came so hard she couldn’t see the other side of the street.

“Let me hold Jacob for you so you can get your coat off,” Mr. Bjorkland said as she came inside.

Mr. Bjorkland and his wife pronounced the child’s name with an extra emphasis on the first syllable, as they did Rachel’s own name. The names sounded gentler that way, and it seemed right to Rachel for the Bjorklands to speak in such a way, because it fit the kind of people they were.

“Here, to dry off with,” Mrs. Bjorkland said, placing a towel on Rachel’s shoulder.

Rachel went on into the kitchen and laid Jacob on the quilt. She opened her pocketbook and set the toy train engine beside the child. As she was about to snap shut her pocketbook, Rachel saw the folded piece of paper with a phone number and address. She opened the note and looked at the small precise handwriting you’d not expect from such a man. How much could you feel for someone you’d only spent six or seven hours with, she wondered. You couldn’t call it love, but Rachel knew she felt something more than just gratitude. Rachel remembered the week she’d called the number night after night with no answer until, finally, the operator picked up and told Rachel the party she was trying to get in touch with was deceased. She held the note a moment longer and then placed it in a trashcan. She looked at Jacob. After I’m dead, she told herself, at least there’ll be one other in the world who knows what Sheriff McDowell done for us.

She changed Jacob and gave him the warm bottle of milk she knew would soon slip from his mouth. Rachel took the cloth apron off the nail
on the wall, tied it around her waist. For a moment she paused, feeling the kitchen’s warmth, understanding something placid in it. A dry warm place on a cold rainy day and the smell of food and the slow soft breaths of a child drifting toward sleep.
A safe harbor
, Rachel told herself, and as she spoke those words to herself she remembered Miss Stephens describing Seattle while pointing to the far right side of the classroom’s wide bright map.

Mr. Bjorkland came through the swinging doors.

“Get your dishwater ready,” he said. “Saturday nights are the worst, so you’ll earn your money this evening.”

There was a clatter of pots and pans as Mr. Bjorkland readied the kitchen for the first order. Rachel glanced over at Jacob, his eyes already closed. He’d sleep soon, despite the din of pots and pans, the shouted orders and and all the other commotion.

I
T WAS
S
NIPES’ CREW WHO CUT THE LAST TREE.
When a thirty-foot hickory succumbed to Ross and Henryson’s cross-cut saw, the valley and ridges resembled the skinned hide of some huge animal. The men gathered their saws and wedges, the blocks and axes and go-devils. They paused a moment, then walked a winding path down Shanty Mountain. It was late October, and the workers’ multi-hued overalls appeared woven from the valley’s last leaves.

Once on level ground, the men stopped to rest beside Rough Fork Creek before trudging the mile back to camp. Stewart kneeled beside the stream and raised a handful of water to his lips, spit it out.

“Tastes like mud.”

“Used to be this creek held some of the sweetest water in these parts,” Ross said. “The chestnut trees that was up at the spring head give it a taste near sweet as honey.”

“Soon you won’t find one chestnut in these mountains,” Henryson noted, “and there’ll be nary a drop of water that sweet again.”

For a few moments no one spoke. A flock of goldfinches flew into view, their feathers bright against the valley’s floor as they winged southward. They swooped low and the flock contracted, perhaps in memory. For a few seconds they appeared suspended there, then the flock expanded like gold cloth unraveling. They circled the valley once before disappearing over Shanty Mountain, their passage through the charred valley as ephemeral as a candle flame waved over an abyss.

“Sheriff McDowell, he was a good man,” Stewart said.

Ross nodded. He took out his papers and tobacco and began rolling a cigarette.

“We’ll likely not see one better.”

“That’s the God’s truth,” Snipes agreed. “He never gave quarter when near about any other man would of. He fought them to the end.”

A bemused smile settled on Henryson’s face. He nodded his head as he looked west toward Tennessee, spoke softly.

“And to think the only ones ever to get away from them was a eighteen-year-old girl and a child. That’s the wonder of it.”

Ross looked up from his cigarette.

“Makes you think God glances this way every once in a while.”

“So they got away for sure?” Stewart asked.

“Galloway ain’t gone back out after them,” Henryson said. “The light’s been on at his stringhouse for a week now, and I seen him my ownself yesterday evening at the commissary.”

“He wasn’t of a mind to explain the whyever of his face being tore up, was he?” Snipes asked.

“No, he wasn’t, and folks wasn’t lining up to ask him about it neither.”

Henryson studied the silted stream for a few moments before turning to Ross.

“Used to be thick with trout too, this here stream. There was many a day you and me took our supper from it. Now you’d not catch a knottyhead.”

“There was game too,” Ross said, “deer and rabbit and coons.”

“Squirrels and bear and beaver and bobcats,” Henryson added.

“And panthers,” Ross said. “I seen one ten year ago on this very creek, but I’ll never see ever a one on it again.”

Ross paused and lit his cigarette. He took a deep draw and let the smoke slowly wisp from his mouth.

“And I had my part in the doing of it.”

“We had to feed our families,” Henryson said.

“Yes, we did,” Ross agreed. “What I’m wondering is how we’ll feed them once all the trees is cut and the jobs leave.”

“At least what critters are left have a place they can run to,” Henryson said.

“The park, you mean?” Stewart asked.

“Yes sir. Trouble is they ain’t going to let us stay in there with them.”

“They told my uncle over on Horsetrough Ridge he’s got to be off his land by next spring,” Stewart said, “and he’s farther on the North Carolina side than us standing right here.”

“Running folks out so you can run the critters in,” Ross said. “That’s a hell of a thing.”

Snipes, who’d listened attentively but without comment, put on his glasses and looked out over the valley.

“Looks like that land over in France once them in charge let us quit fighting. Got the same feeling about it too.”

“What kind of feeling?” Henryson asked.

“Like there’s been so much killed and destroyed it can’t ever be alive again. Even for them that wasn’t around when it happened, it’d lay heavy on them too. It’d be like trying to live in a graveyard.”

Ross nodded. “I was just over there three months when it was winding down, but you’re right. They’s a feeling about a place where men died and the land died with them.”

“I missed that one,” Henryson said. “The war, I mean.”

“Don’t worry,” Snipes said. “Another one’s always coming down the pike. That’s something all your historians and philosophers agree on.
A feller over in Germany looks to be ready to set a match to Europe soon enough, and quick as they snuff him out there’ll be another to take his place.”

“It’s ever the way of it,” Ross said.

Stewart looked at McIntyre.

“What do you think, Preacher?”

The others turned to McIntyre, not expecting him to reply but to see if any acknowledgment he’d been addressed crossed the man’s face. McIntyre raised his eyes and contemplated the wasteland strewn out before him where not a single live thing rose. The other men also looked out on what was in part their handiwork and grew silent. When McIntyre spoke his voice had no stridency, only a solemnity so profound and humble all grew attentive.

“I think this is what the end of the world will be like,” McIntyre said, and none among them raised his voice to disagree.

T
HE FOLLOWING EVENING
P
EMBERTON AND
S
ERENA
dressed for Pemberton’s thirtieth birthday party. Most of the furniture was gone now, packed and hauled off to Jackson County. As Pemberton walked across the room to the chifforobe, his steps reverberated through every room in the house. A dozen workers remained in the camp—Galloway, some kitchen staff, the men taking up rails to reuse in Jackson County. The valley exuded an almost audible silence.

“Where’s Galloway been these last few mornings?” Pemberton asked.

“Working, but you can’t know why or where.”

Serena went to the chifforobe, took out the green dress she’d worn to the Cecil’s dinner party.

Pemberton smiled. “I thought we had no secrets.”

“We don’t,” Serena said. “All will be revealed this very night.”

“At the party?”

“Yes.”

Serena slipped the dress over her head, let the silk slowly ripple and then smooth over skin free of any undergarment. With a quick brush of Serena’s hands, the material succumbed to the curves of her body.

Pemberton moved in front of the mirror and knotted his tie. As he examined his handiwork, he saw Serena’s reflection in the glass. She stood behind him, just to the left, watching. He straightened the knot and walked over to the bureau to get his cufflinks. Serena stayed where she was, looking at herself, now alone inside the mirror’s oval. Her hair had grown out in the last year, touching her shoulders, but tonight it was braided in tight coils set upon her head, revealing a stark whiteness on the back of her neck. Pemberton checked the clock and saw with regret that it was almost time to meet their guests. Later, he thought, and moved to stand behind her. He laid his left hand on Serena’s waist, lips brushing the whiteness of her neck.

“Just two weeks before you have one,” Pemberton said, “your thirtieth birthday, I mean. I’ve always liked our birthdays being so near.”

Pemberton moved closer so he’d see both their faces in the mirror. The green cloth felt cool to his touch.

“Would you have wished we shared a birthday as well?” Serena said.

Pemberton smiled, raised his hand and cupped her right breast. They could be a few minutes late. It was, after all, his party.

“Why wish for anything more,” Pemberton said. “Being with each other is enough.”

“Is it, Pemberton?”

The words were spoken in a cool skeptical manner that surprised him. For a moment Serena seemed about to say something more, but she didn’t. She slipped from his grasp, left him standing alone in front of the mirror.

“It’s time to go and meet our guests,” she said.

Pemberton drained his glass of bourbon and poured another drink, drank it in a single swallow. He set the empty glass on the bedside table,
and they walked out into the early autumn evening. Farther up the tracks, men pulled spikes with crowbars, groaning and grunting as they paired off and lifted the three-hundred-and-fifty-pound rails onto a flat car. Pemberton looked past the men to where only wooden crossties remained, some blackened by the fire, others not. They blended so well into the landscape as to be barely discernable. Pemberton remembered helping lay the rails across these same crossties, and he had a sudden sensation he was watching time reverse itself. The world blurred, and it seemed possible that the crossties would leap onto stumps and become trees again, the slash whirl upward to become branches. Even a dark blizzard of ash paling back in time to become green leaves, gray and brown twigs.

“What’s wrong?” Serena said as he swayed slightly.

She gripped Pemberton’s arm and time righted itself, again ran in its proper current.

“I guess I drank that last whiskey too fast.”

The train came over the ridge. He and Serena moved closer to the track and met their guests as they stepped down from the coach car. Kisses and handshakes were exchanged, and hosts and guests walked into the office. Among them was Mrs. Lowenstein, who’d not been expected. Pemberton noted her pallor and thinness, how her eyes receded deep inside the sockets, accentuating the skull blossoming beneath her taut skin. Ten chairs had been placed around the table. The Salvatores and De Mans sat across from the Lowensteins and Calhouns, Serena and Pemberton at opposite ends.

“What an impressive table,” Mrs. Salvatore said. “It looks to be a single piece of wood. Is that possible?”

“Yes, a single piece of chestnut,” Pemberton answered, “cut less than a mile from here.”

“I wouldn’t have thought such a large tree existed,” Mrs. Salvatore said.

“Pemberton Lumber Company will find even bigger trees in Brazil,” Serena said.

“So you’ve shown us,” Calhoun agreed, spreading his arms to show he meant all at the table. “And I must say in a very convincing fashion.”

“Indeed,” Mr. Salvatore said. “I’m a cautious man, especially with this continuing depression, but your Brazil venture is the best investment I’ve found since Black Friday.”

The camp’s remaining kitchen workers came into the room, serving as bartenders as well as waiters. Their clothes were fresh laundered but no different from what they normally wore. Investors preferred money spent cutting wood, not finery for workers, Serena had reasoned. The supper fare was similarly austere, roast beef and potatoes, squash and bread. Pemberton had armed a crew with fishing poles that afternoon to catch trout for an hors d’ oeuvre, but the men returned from the creeks fishless, claming no trout remained in the valley or nearby ridges to catch. Only the French Chardonnay and Glenlivet scotch bespoke wealth, that and a box of Casamontez cigars set at the table’s center.

“We must have a birthday toast,” Calhoun announced once the drinks had been poured.

“First a toast to our new partnerships,” Pemberton said.

“Go ahead then, Pemberton,” Calhoun said.

“I defer to my wife,” Pemberton said. “Her eloquence surpasses mine.”

Serena raised her wineglass.

“To partnerships, and all that’s possible,” Serena said. “The world is ripe, and we’ll pluck it like an apple from a tree.”

“Pure poetry,” Calhoun exclaimed.

They ate. Pemberton had drunk in moderation the last few weeks, but tonight he wanted the heightened exuberance of alcohol. Besides the bourbon at the house, he’d drained seven tumblers of scotch by the time his birthday cake was placed before him, the thirty lit candles set in a four-layer chocolate cake that took two workers to carry. Pemberton was surprised at the extravagance of Serena’s gesture. The kitchen workers set ten saucers and a cutting knife to the right of the cake. Serena dismissed both workers after the coffee was poured and the cigars passed around.

“A cake worthy of a king,” Lowenstein said admiringly as the cake’s flickering light suffused Pemberton’s face in a golden glow.

“A wish before you blow out the candles,” Calhoun demanded.

“I need no wish,” Pemberton said. “I’ve nothing left to want.”

He stared at the candles and the swaying motions of the flames gave his stomach a momentary queasiness. Pemberton inhaled deeply and blew, taking two more breaths before the last candle was snuffed.

“Another toast,” Calhoun said, “to the man who has everything.”

“Yes, a toast,” Lowenstein said.

They all raised their glasses and drank, except Serena.

“I disagree,” Serena said as the others set their glasses down. “There’s one thing my husband doesn’t have.”

“What would that be?” Mrs. De Man asked.

“The panther he hoped to kill in these mountains.”

“Ah, too late,” Pemberton said, and looked at the expired candles in mock regret.”

“Perhaps not,” Serena said to Pemberton. “Galloway has been out scouting for your panther the last week, and he’s found it.”

Serena nodded toward the open office door, where Galloway had appeared.

“Right, Galloway.”

The highlander nodded as Pemberton paused in his cutting of the cake.

“Where?” Pemberton asked.

“Ivy Gap,” Serena said. “Galloway’s baited a meadow just outside the park boundary with deer carcasses. Three evenings ago the panther came and fed on one. Tomorrow it should be hungry again, and this time you’ll be waiting for it.”

Serena turned to address Galloway. As she did, Pemberton saw that a diminutive figure in a black satin bonnet stood behind him in the foyer.

“Bring her in,” Serena said.

As mother and son entered the room, the old woman’s wrinkled hand clutched Galloway’s left wrist, covering the nub as if to foster an illusion
that the hand attached to her son’s arm might be his instead of her own. Mrs. Galloway’s cedar-wood shoes clacked hollowly on the puncheon floor. She wore the same black dress that Pemberton had seen her in two summers ago.

“Entertainment for our guests,” Serena said.

All at the table turned to watch the old woman totter into the room. Serena placed a chair next to Pemberton and gestured at Galloway to seat her. Galloway helped his mother into the chair. She undid her bonnet and handed it to her son, who remained beside her. It was the first time Pemberton had clearly seen the old woman’s face. It reminded him of a walnut hull with its deep wavy wrinkles, dry as a hull as well. Her eyes stared straight ahead, clouded the same milky-blue as before. Galloway, the satin bonnet in his hand, stepped back and leaned against the wall.

Calhoun, his face blushed by alcohol, finally broke the silence.

“What sort of entertainment? I see no dulcimer or banjo. An a cappella ballad from the old country? Perhaps a jack tale?”

Calhoun leaned over to his wife and whispered. They both looked at the old woman and laughed.

“She sees the future,” Serena said.

“Marvelous,” Lowenstein said, and turned to his spouse. “We won’t need our stockbroker any more, dear.”

Everyone at the table laughed except the old woman and Serena. As the laughter subsided, Mrs. Lowenstein raised a purple handkerchief to her lips.

“Mrs. Galloway’s talents are of a more personal nature,” Serena said.

“Look out, Lowenstein,” Calhoun retorted. “She may predict you’re going to prison for tax evasion.”

Laughter again filled the room, but the old woman appeared impervious to the jesting. Galloway’s mother clasped her hands and set them on the table. Blue veins webbed the loose skin, and the nails were cracked and yellowed, yet neatly trimmed. Pemberton smiled at the thought of Galloway bent over the old crone, carefully clipping each nail.

“Who wants to go first?” Serena said.

“Oh, me please,” Mrs. Lowenstein said. “Do I need to hold out my palm or does she have a crystal ball.”

“Ask your question,” Serena said, her smile thinning.

“Very well. Will my daughter get married soon?”

The old woman turned in the direction of Mrs. Lowenstein’s voice and slowly nodded.

“Wonderful,” Mrs. Lowenstein said. “I’ll get to be a mother of the bride after all. I so feared Hannah would wait until I was pushing up daisies.”

Mrs. Galloway stared in Mrs. Lowenstein’s direction a few moments longer, then spoke.

“All I said was she’d get married soon.”

An uncomfortable silence descended over the table. Pemberton struggled for a quip to restore the levity, but the alcohol blurred his thinking. Serena met his eyes but offered no help. Finally it was Mr. De Man, who’d said little the whole evening, who attempted to lessen the disquietude.

“What about Pemberton. It’s his birthday we’re here to celebrate. He should have his fortune told.”

“Yes,” Serena said. “Pemberton should go next. I even have the perfect question for him.”

“And what is that, my dear?” Pemberton asked.

“Ask her how you’ll die.”

Mrs. Salvatore let out a soft
oh,
her eyes shifting between her husband and the door, which she appeared ready to flee through. Lowenstein took his wife’s hand, his brow furrowed. He seemed about to say something, but Serena spoke first.

“Go ahead, Pemberton. For our guests’ amusement.”

Salvatore rose in his seat.

“Perhaps it’s time for us to take leave and return to Asheville,” he said, but Pemberton raised his hand and gestured for him to sit down.

“Very well,” Pemberton said, raising his tumbler and giving his guests
a reassuring grin. “But I’ll finish my dram of liquor first. A man should have a drink in his hand when he confronts his demise.”

“Well put,” Calhoun said, “a man who understands how to meet his fate, with a belly full of good scotch.”

The others smiled at Calhoun’s remark, including Salvatore, who eased back into his chair. Pemberton emptied his tumbler and set it down forcefully enough that Mrs. Salvatore flinched.

“So how will I die, Mrs. Galloway?” Pemberton asked, his words beginning to slur. “Will it be a gunshot? Perhaps a knife?”

Galloway, who’d been gazing out the window, now fixed his eyes on his mother.

“A rope’s more likely for a scoundrel like you, Pemberton,” Calhoun said, eliciting chuckles all around.

The old woman turned her head in Pemberton’s direction.

“No gun nor knife,” she answered. “Nor rope around your neck.”

“That’s a relief,” Pemberton said.

Except for the Salvatores, the guests laughed politely.

“What killed my father was his liver,” Pemberton said.

“It ain’t to be your liver,” Mrs. Galloway said.

“So what, pray tell, is the thing that will kill me?”

“They ain’t one thing can kill a man like you,” Mrs. Galloway answered, and pushed back her chair.

Galloway helped his mother to her feet, and at that moment Pemberton realized it was all a jape. The others realized also as Mrs. Galloway took her son’s arm and made her slow clatter across the room and disappeared into the darkened hallway. Pemberton raised his tumbler toward Serena.

“Splendid answer, and the best any man could hope for,” he said. “A toast to my wife, who can play a rusty with the best of them.”

Pemberton looked down the table’s length and smiled at Serena as the others laughed and clapped. The alcohol made everyone else in the room hazy to Pemberton, but somehow not Serena. If anything, she appeared brighter, the dress vivid and shimmering.
Evergreen.
The word came to
him now though he could not say why. He remembered the touch of his lips on the pale bareness of her neck and wished the guests hours gone. If they were, he wouldn’t wait but would lift Serena onto the table and undress her on the Chestnut’s heartwood. For a few moments, he thought of doing it anyway and giving Mrs. Salvatore a real case of the vapors.