The Cove (15 page)
T
hey had been lucky. As wearisome as the digging was, Hank and Walter at least hadn't hit more rock. They were fifty feet deep according to Hank's rough measuring, close enough that on Tuesday Hank borrowed Slidell's wagon to order the pulley. Laurel went with him to buy the dress she'd wear the day she and Walter left for New York. As they came into Mars Hill, a newsboy held up a newspaper that proclaimed
ARMISTICE WITH TURKEY
, beneath
WAR SURE TO END SOON
. Good that I did come today, Laurel thought, I may have need of that dress this very week.
“I figure that new pulley to set us back a few bucks, but it'll last till we all got gray hair,” Hank said.
Laurel nodded. It would, though she and Walter wouldn't be around to see that happen. A lot of wasted work, especially if Hank couldn't sell the farm. Though with Laurel gone, she believed there was a much greater chance of finding a buyer. If it did sell, she'd take none of the money. It was part of something she wanted to be shed of completely.
Hank found a free post in front of the depot and helped Laurel off the buckboard. A sound like volleys of rifle shots came from the depot's far side.
“What the hell is that?” Hank asked, and they walked onto the depot's planking to see.
Chauncey Feith stood in front of a grandstand completed but for the steps and railing. The Boys Working Reserve wielded saws and hammers as Chauncey gave orders over the din.
“Must be part of the big to-do next week for Paul Clayton,” Hank said.
“I guess there's worse they could be doing,” Laurel said.
Hank nodded and turned his gaze back toward town.
“So I'll go on over to Lingefelt's and order the pulley, buy a new rope and pail, couple of other things. What about you?”
“I'm just going to the dress shop.”
Hank took out his watch and checked the clock tower.
“Let's meet back here in twenty minutes.”
As Hank walked up the street, Laurel looked at the town spread out before her. This could be the last time she came to Mars Hill except to board a train to leave it. As her eyes passed over the storefronts, then above to the college, she wanted to feel something besides bitterness. It wasn't all of them, Laurel told herself. There was Doctor Carter and Miss Calicut and Marcie, and Professor Mayer, he'd been kind to her. Mr. Shuler had been nice when she'd traded there, and Tillman Estep, who'd stared at the ground as he handed Laurel a five-dollar bill. To help you through until your brother gets home, Estep had said. No, Laurel thought, not all of them.
She touched the dress pocket to make sure the three silver dollars were still there. It would be a new dress for a new life. As Laurel crossed the street and stepped onto the boardwalk, she thought how good it would be to live where no one knew anything about her. People weren't supposed to be friendly in cities, but how could there not be more smiles and nods than here.
Inside the cloth shop, a group of women stood by the counter, Mrs. Dobbins on the other side. This is the last time, Laurel reminded herself, and took a deep breath. When she walked in, the women quit talking. She saw only Mrs. Dobbins's face but knew its sour expression was matched by four more. Laurel went to the back of the shop and slowly thumbed through the wooden trays, finally decided which pattern she liked best. The dress's shoulder straps were thin and would reveal the birth stain, but that didn't matter to her because it didn't matter to Walter. She stepped among the bolts of cloth, wished she'd asked him his favorite color. Laurel pondered what it might be, trying to remember if he'd made special notice of her blue-checked gingham dress or yellow ribbon. If he had, she couldn't recall it. Then she remembered something else.
The women were talking again and their tone and glances toward the back of the store made the topic clear. Laurel found a striped cloth she liked but instead decided on a solid. She checked the pattern and turned toward the counter.
“I need five yards of this one,” Laurel said.
The women turned as one, as if offended that she'd spoken in their presence.
“Excuse me,” Mrs. Dobbins said, and came around the counter with her cutting shears.
Mrs. Dobbins rolled the cloth off the bolt, cut it with quick ragged snips as an older woman came into the shop. She wore a cloche hat and a yoke-collar dress. A diamond sparkled on her hand and pearls big as marbles hung around her neck.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Garvey,” Mrs. Dobbins said, bunching the cloth and handing it to Laurel like it was a dirty dishrag.
Mrs. Dobbins bustled over to where Mrs. Garvey stood.
“What may I help you with today, ma'am?”
“I'm having a dress made for my granddaughter. Some nice silk, if you have it.”
“Yes, ma'am, we have an array of lovely crepe de chines,” Mrs. Dobbins said. “Over here by the window.”
Mrs. Garvey examined the silk as Laurel stepped to the counter.
“Excuse me just for a moment, Mrs. Garvey,” Mrs. Dobbins said.
Mrs. Dobbins took Laurel's three silver dollars and placed them in the cash register. She laid two quarters and a dime on the counter, took out a handkerchief, and wiped her hands. The women around the counter gave smirks of approval. Old biddies, that's all they are, Laurel thought. An image from childhood came to her. A hawk had grabbed a baby chick and then lost its grip. The biddy was hurt and bleeding and the other biddies began pecking it. Because that was what biddies did, she'd learned that day. They found one of their own sick or hurt and took turns pecking it to death.
“Six yards of this one,” Mrs. Garvey said.
“Yes, ma'am,” Mrs. Dobbins answered, and reached for the shears, “and I must tell you, Mrs. Garvey, that is the finest cloth in the store.”
“You've wiping your hands,” Laurel said, “you did that because you think me a witch, Mrs. Dobbins?”
Mrs. Dobbins reddened. For a few moments she stared at Laurel, then turned to Mrs. Garvey.
“The very finest cloth, Mrs. Garvey, I can assure you of that.”
“So you think me a witch or not?” Laurel asked again, loud enough that Mrs. Garvey stared at her.
“So what if I do,” Mrs. Dobbins hissed, and came around the counter, brushed past Laurel.
“Then you'd better warn Mrs. Garvey that I touched that silk just a few minutes ago. I hexed it, so there's no telling what might happen to her granddaughter.”
Laurel picked up her change and walked outside. Hank waited by the wagon, the rope and bucket and a salt lick stashed in the bed. Laurel crossed the street. Chauncey Feith and his boys were still working on the scaffold, saws grinding amid the hammers' sharp reports. Hank unhitched Ginny and they rode up Main Street. The sun was out but a steady wind made the air chilly. Laurel raised her coat lapels and covered her neck.
“That's some fancy cloth you bought, sister,” Hank said. “What will you make with it?”
“A dress.”
“Looks to be for a special occasion,” Hank said, and smiled. “You and Walter ain't made plans to get hitched without telling me, have you?”
You've been spiteful enough for one day, Laurel told herself, but she couldn't hold her tongue.
“You mean the way you did me?”
Hank stared at the reins.
“I was wrong to do that, wrong about some other concernings too,” Hank said. “Things are going to be different. They already are. The farm's in better shape than it's ever been. The crops proved out a good harvest and the livestock's stout. It shows a prospering has come to the cove. Even Carolyn's daddy admitted as much. Now I've got Carolyn and you've got Walter and I'm figuring things to only keep getting better, don't you?”
“Yes,” Laurel said, and she did believe they would. It just wouldn't be here.
“The way people see us, it's changing.”
“For you,” Laurel answered.
“But it will for you too,” Hank said, “just give it time. I've been thinking about what lays ahead for all of us. After a year or two Carolyn and me could move back. It's the gloaminess that bothers her, so we could build a house on the ridge near the creek. Cut down some trees and we'd have sunshine aplenty. You and Walter could do the same, leave that darksome cabin to the spiders and salamanders. The bottomland has some rich soil, Daddy was right about that, and it's been fallow so long we'll have bumper crops for sure. All of us could make a good life there, and you and me could finally have a real family, with cousins and aunts and uncles. Folks won't have the least cause to shun us.”
The way Hank described it, Laurel could almost believe it might happen. It was like a map unfurled with just enough dots and names to look real. A last beguiling to keep her here, not by Hank but by the cove itself, allowing her to dream the place different. But it wouldn't be different, not really. There would always be folks like Mrs. Dobbins. Even Walter, what would he believe, and blame, if the first cow died of milk fever, or a hailstorm flailed the life out of three months' work. If she got pregnant and something went wrong.
“The dress I'm making,” Laurel said, “it's a surprise for Walter, so don't let on.”
“I won't,” Hank said.
They were on the Marshall pike now, and Laurel turned her mind to the
Vaterland
's B deck first, moving through the Ritz-Carlton restaurant and the wintergarden's palm trees and flowers and gilt latticework, then on through the ship's library with its glassed bookcase and blue oriental rug, finally the social hall, the biggest room of all and where the orchestra had played. There were two elevators and three winding staircases with bronze banisters, windows framed with pilasters and oak walls, four oil paintings of Pandora. There was a half-moon stage with a grand piano and above it all a glass ceiling.
As the wagon jolted onto the wayfare, Laurel moved on to the A deck, starting in the smoking room with its brass lanterns dangling from the ceiling, stained-glass windows, the white-stone fireplace Walter told her a grown man could stand in, its andirons heavy as another ship's anchor. By the time they got to Slidell's, Laurel had imagined all of the A, B, C, and D decks. It was like a jigsaw puzzle in her head, some pieces missing but enough that Laurel was starting to have it all connect.
Slidell came out and helped get Ginny unhitched and back in her stable. Stay and have a drink if you're not averse, he told Hank, so Laurel walked on alone to the cove. Walter was by the shed, chopping logs into kindling. She took the cloth and pattern to her room and came back outside.
“Be careful,” Laurel said as she approached. “Those fingers of yours are going to have to keep us out of the poorhouse.”
Laurel took the axe from his hand, leaned closer, and kissed him softly on the mouth.
“Let's go inside where it's warmer,” Laurel said. “Hank's having a dram with Slidell, so we got some time to talk.”
But Walter shook his head and led her a few yards into the woods. They faced the notch to watch for Hank. Overcautious, Laurel thought, but not to be swayed in the matter. He'd yet to speak a single word on the porch or in the cabin.
“Hank talked to me today about him and Carolyn coming here to live with us,” Laurel said. “It's not likely crossed his mind we could be leaving.”
“And that is how we want it to stay,” Walter said.
“I know,” Laurel said.
She took his right hand, brought it around her waist, and settled her back against his chest.
“A newspaper claimed the war's all but over. It said there's been an armistice with Turkey.”
“Perhaps so,” Walter said. “After so long, it is an amazement anyone remains to fight.”
“When it does end,” Laurel said, “all I will take with me I can wrap in a bedsheet. Ten minutes and I'll be ready. I want us to leave that very day, even if we have to walk to Mars Hill.”
Laurel saw Hank coming down from the notch. Still a while though, before he got to the cabin.
“We have time for you to tell me about the E deck.”
“There was a swimming bath,” Walter said, “and twin marble staircases led down to it, and a statue made of black marble.”
“What was it a statue of?” Laurel asked.
“An angel,” Walter said.
O
n that Sunday afternoon four months ago, the first thing Chauncey had seen as he crossed the river was the Mountain Park Hotel looming over the whole town. It was even grander than he had supposed, four stories high with two cupolas rising even higher. He'd heard the hotel's interior was spartan since becoming part of a prison camp, but it was still a magnificent building the
Vaterland
's officers were allowed to occupy. One of them stood on the hotel porch, and because of the white beard and white uniform, Chauncey knew which officer it was. Beside the hotel were a dozen barracks and around them wells and coal bunkers and even a blacksmith shop. A fence surrounded the hotel and barracks, but though it looked to be a good ten feet high, Chauncey noted that a man who would risk a few barbs in his hands could scale it easy enough. He slowly passed the barracks and saw the Germans milling about. Some played cards or pinochle while others smoked and lounged. They weren't wearing shackles and it had looked to Chauncey more like a church camp than a prison. One Hun was at the fence, talking to a pretty young woman outside the wire, a local girl from the look of her flour-print dress. No one appeared to care that she and the Hun could be passing information or a weapon. As he passed, Chauncey saw their fingers touched through the wire.
The camp entrance was between the hotel and the barracks, so Chauncey had parked, gathered his notebook and pen, and crossed the perimeter road. Two guards with shotguns slouched in chairs outside the open gate. Neither bothered to look up until Chauncey was right in front of them. The shorter man raised his right hand slightly, unsure if he was expected to salute.
What can we do for you, sir? the shorter man had asked and Chauncey answered that he'd wanted to see if the prison camp was as disgraceful as he'd been hearing and he'd already seen enough to confirm that it was. You don't know the half of it, the shorter guard said as a farmer passed through the gate with a basket of tomatoes. Us red-blooded Americans is so rationed out we're near starving and these Huns get plenty to eat. They even got hot water.
Chauncey nodded at the Hun and the local girl, who still had their fingers twined, and asked what the hell kind of prison camp it was that allowed such a thing. This ain't no prison camp, the taller guard had answered, saucy like, it's for internees, not soldiers nor spies. Then the guard had given pretty near a speech about how the Germans never caused a bit of trouble and that there were musicians amongst them who played concerts folks in Hot Springs came to and how when the bridge got washed out the Germans rebuilt it. The other guard piped in and said he did have to admit the Germans had done a crackerjack job on the bridge. Chauncey had finally quit listening and started writing notes for his report. When he asked the guards their names, the shorter one said what for and Chauncey answered for being two of the sorriest guards he'd ever seen in his life. Of course the tall one bowed up and said there'd been nary an escape on his watch. Chauncey had answered that the Huns were afraid if they did get out they might end up in a real prison camp instead of a health resort.
Chauncey had driven back to Mars Hill that June Sunday and gone straight to his office and typed up a full report on the camp and sent it to Captain Arnold, who sent the report on to his superior. Chauncey hadn't been asked for any further information or been called to Washington to testify or anything like that, but now it was November, and the Hot Springs Germans had been hauled down to Fort Oglethorpe in Georgia, a real prison camp where they had machine guns and a dead line on the perimeter and the prisoners weren't mollycoddled but made to work in a rock quarry all day.
Chauncey raised his eyes from the newspaper. He looked out the window and watched a farmer enter the post office. A fish wrapper, that was all the good the
Marshall Sentinel
was. From what he'd just read, the German who'd escaped in August did so to keep from going to Fort Oglethorpe, which just confirmed what Chauncey had told that smartass guard. The Hun still hadn't been recaptured and could be anywhere by now, maybe even sneaked back to Germany in a U-boat.
But that wasn't the worst of it. Above the article was a photograph of Commodore Ruser shaking a guard's hand. The old fool was still wearing his white uniform and Chauncey remembered how Ruser had stood on the hotel's front porch with a pipe in his mouth and his hands behind his back, looking out like he was still on the prow of the
Vaterland
. When the commodore and his crew first came to Madison County, the
Sentinel
had made a big to-do over them and the tub they'd been on, spouting off about the
Vaterland
being the biggest ship ever built and there were three million rivets and fifteen thousand electric lights and so on. It was nothing but Hun propaganda, complete with a picture of the
Vaterland
in New York Harbor, a German flag clear as day on the ship's masthead.
Chauncey himself had to set the record straight, doing his own interviewing by telephone. He'd found plenty the newspaper didn't bother to mention, like how the crew had sabotaged the
Vaterland
, everything from hacksawing piston rods to throwing machine parts overboard. Or that the
Vaterland
's crew rigged steam pipes so they'd bust once enough pressure built up, the vilest sort of treachery because they hoped to sink the ship with a bunch of Americans onboard. Then, to top it all, once the United States made its declaration of war, Ruser complained it was wrong to arrest German civiliansâthis after his country sank the
Lusitania
and drowned a thousand American and British civilians, most of them women and children. Chauncey had written it all up and taken it to the
Sentinel
's office and demanded they print it and they damn well had.
Chauncey laid the newspaper on his desk and went to the window and again looked across the street. Two old women gabbed on the post office steps so he sat back down. He folded the newspaper and dropped it in the trash can. Chauncey wondered if it had been his report that had gotten the Hot Springs camp closed. No one had ever given him credit as such, but what was the surprise in that. At least the Huns were gone. The only shame was Miss Yount and that professor hadn't been hauled off with them.
The tower clock rang ten times and Chauncey got up and looked toward the post office again. What's got you so all-fired interested in the mail of a sudden? Marvin Alexander had asked three weeks ago. Before he'd thought better, Chauncey answered he was expecting a letter from Governor Bickett. When he'd entered the post office the next morning and found his mailbox empty, Marvin had winked at Georgina Singleton. Guess the governor has a few other matters to attend to before he writes his pen pal, Marvin had said, and Georgina Singleton thought it quite the josh. After that, Chauncey thought about sending one of the boys to check his box and not give the postmaster the satisfaction of seeing him disappointed, but that meant waiting until late afternoon. Each morning Chauncey would look out his window, knowing the governor's letter could be just across the street, not even a stone's throw away, waiting for him. After an hour or two he'd not be able to stand it and would go check, but only when Marvin Alexander and his big mouth were in the post office alone.
Chauncey did the same this morning, waiting awhile then crossing the street, expecting yet another smartass smile or quip. But today Marvin Alexander told Chauncey his letter had come and handed it to him. At first Chauncey thought it might be a jape on the postmaster's part, but then he saw the gold seal and typed return address. His own name was typed too,
Sergeant Chauncey Feith
, followed by
Mars Hill North Carolina
.
“You going to open it?” Alexander asked.
Where are your smartass words and smile now, Chauncey almost answered but instead placed the letter in his uniform's shirt pocket, like it was nothing more than a ticket stub, and walked out. In the office, he sat at his desk and laid the letter before him. He read the addresses again, then turned the letter over and let his index finger rub the gold imprint of the statehouse seal. He opened his drawer and took out a brass letter opener, decided it was too blunt so took out his penknife instead. He placed the blade tip on the fold's edge and slowly let the steel slit the letter's top. Outside, a gangly youth read a recruitment poster on the window, but Chauncey ignored him and carefully unfolded the letter.
Dear Sergeant Feith,
It is with great regret that I will be unable to attend your homecoming parade honoring one of our heroic soldiers, but the exigencies of office will not allow my participation. Nevertheless, I wish to inform you and the citizens of Mars Hill and Madison County that there will be an official proclamation recognizing the celebration, and it will be read in the statehouse chambers. Thank you for your gracious invitation and your hard work on behalf of our brave soldiers. Americans such as yourself are, too often, the unsung heroes of our country's fight against the Central Powers. Therefore, the proclamation will honor you by name as well as Paul Clayton.
Sincerely,
Governor Thomas Walter Bickett
Chauncey knew he should be disappointed by the governor's response, but as he reread the letter it was hard to be. At the homecoming they could have the proclamation read aloud by Senator Zeller, though perhaps not the part about Chauncey himself. After all, the event was to honor Paul. Yes, he decided, he'd have the part about himself left out, insist it be left out. Still, he would have the letter framed, and he was going to hang it on the wall directly behind where he now sat, or better, on the wall next to the window. It would give people like Marvin Alexander and anybody else pause before they disrespected him again. Though what they thought didn't matter. Why care what a bunch of mountain grills thought when the governor of North Carolina had called Sergeant Chauncey Feith a hero.
