A MistY MourninG Page 7

  I looked lost, so Gert clarified for me. “Panther attack.”

  “Right after that gulley washer, too,” the waitress added.

  “Well, we think it was an attack by some sort of wild animal. We’re not actually sure if it was a panther,” I said.

  “Used to be around here, painters were aplenty. They gettin’ scarce now,” she said.

  “I know,” Gert said. “I’m from this part of the woods.”

  “Oh, yeah?” the waitress asked as she picked up our empty plates. “Ain’t changed much.”

  Oh, but it had, I thought, as she walked away. To her maybe it was the same old stagnant small town with the same trappings as every other small town. But it had changed. Bucky’s, who or whatever it was, was gone. There was a McDonald’s on the corner as we came into town, which I’m sure had been added in the last ten or fifteen years. A chain grocery store was on the right, back at the stoplight. And once upon a time, this had been a coal town. Owned by the coal company. Meaning it had a company store and a company doctor. Oh, it had changed plenty.

  Gert and I went to the register and paid the bill. As I waited for my change, I noticed the woman behind the register kept eyeing me. I got that a lot, because I look as if I had a beach ball stuffed under my clothes, and nobody could wait to ask when I was due.

  “Think they’ll ever find out?” the woman asked.

  “Find out what?”

  “Now that Mrs. Hart’s dead. They say she was the one who knew.”

  “Knew what?” I was surprised by her line of questioning. It was obvious she had either overhead our conversation with the waitress or the waitress had marched right up here and told her that we were staying at the boardinghouse. I wasn’t surprised, however, with how quickly the town knew about Clarissa and the “panther” attack of the night before. I was from a small town. I knew how this worked.

  “You know,” she said. “Those two miners. You think they’ll ever find out what happened to them?”

  “We’re gonna be late for church,” Gert said to me. She all but shooed me out the door. I barely had time to get my change from the woman.

  “Gert—”

  “Let’s just get to church,” she said. “Don’t give me no trouble or my hand’s gonna meet your fanny.”

  I didn’t doubt her. She’d swatted my fanny plenty. I got in the car and drove us to church, wondering all the while what the cashier at Denny’s was referring to, and why my grandmother seemed fairly intent on not discussing it.

  Eleven

  Gert and I sat in the third pew from the front on the left-hand side of the church when facing the altar. Shiny hardwood floors reflected everything from the rays of sunlight filtering through the long garden-style windows to my feet, tapping lightly to the sounds of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.” The walls were plain and brilliant white, and there was no overexhausted ornamentation anywhere within the church walls. The podium was wooden with a cross carved into it, situated just slightly to the left on the altar and a large pine cross hung from the ceiling above the altar. That was it. No other decorations or distractions.

  The preacher was a jolly-looking man, with round wire spectacles and a head that was semibald except for the ring of white cotton that started at one temple and wound around the bottom of his head to the other temple. It looked as though somebody had shaved the entire top portion of his head and buffed it until it shined, then glued cotton balls along the bottom portion. As if that weren’t enough puffy stuff, his beard was also full and cottony, his pink lips supplying the only color, peering out of the cotton. His voice was raspy, but pleasant, and he shook his jowls when emphasizing a particular word or phrase. He kept his thumbs hooked in his belt, and every now and then he would rub his belly, which could rival my third-trimester belly.

  Today’s sermon was about the temptations of the flesh. Gluttony, alcohol, and sex seemed to be his primary focus. He talked about taking only what was yours and not borrowing your neighbor’s and how it wouldn’t hurt for us, as Americans, to give up some of our comforts for those less fortunate in other parts of the world. I agreed with him on all of it, but I couldn’t help but wonder how many meals he’d given up for the sake of starving people the world over. It had long been a source of great guilt for me, the things that my family and I had, and yet. . . just over the horizon was always something else that we wanted. Was it that we were never satisfied, or was it that our goals changed? Or was that the same thing?

  Also in attendance this morning was Lafayette Hart, seated in the very front pew on our side. Susan Henry, the cook, was seated on the right-hand side halfway back. “Brother Hart,” as the pastor kept calling Lafayette, would raise his hand every now and then, and he always led the congregation in singing.

  “Brother Hart,” the pastor would say, “lead us in song.” And Lafayette would stand and begin the song by himself until everybody else recognized the music that he’d chosen and joined in.

  “And the sanctity of the physical relationship,” the pastor said, “of man and wife. . . is the greatest gift two people can give each other.”

  I thought about Rudy and was amazed at the overwhelming desire I had to see him. I’d only been gone two nights, and I really and truly missed him. I also thought of the girls and how they were probably sitting on the couch in their pajamas, eating Apple Cinnamon Cheerios and watching Pokémon. Suddenly I wanted to go home.

  “But never should you take that sacred act beyond the walls of your marriage,” the pastor said. “And consume not the wickedness of alcohol. The spirits. Booze.”

  It might have been my imagination, but I could have sworn there were a few people squirming in their seats. The pastor slammed his hand down on the podium so hard that the microphone nearly toppled over.

  “It is pure evil. The root of everything bad,” he said. “Brothers and sisters, when you feel the need to drink, open your Bibles. Turn to God. Brothers and sisters, the alcohol you have in your house— that six-pack of beer. The half a fifth of whiskey or gin. That bottle of wine you keep saying that you use for cookin’ those fancy recipes. Don’t be fooled by the devil. You gather up alcoholic evils, and you take them to the river. You take them to the river, and you dump them out! Pour them all into the river, and your sins will be washed away with the tide. You will feel better, and you will be a new person. Brother Hart, lead us in song.”

  Lafayette Hart stood and without hesitation began singing “Shall We Gather at the River?” The irony was not lost on me nor on half of the congregation as they snickered behind their hands at Lafayette’s choice in music. The pastor, however, never faltered and sang along with him.

  When the services were over there was a box social luncheon. Gert wanted to stay. I wanted to go home and call my family, but we stayed anyway.

  I stood at the end of a table, with a paper plate in hand, waiting for my turn at the potato salad. Gert was already seated and would be finished eating by the time I made it through the line. The pastor stood right behind me talking to Lafayette.

  “I am so sorry to hear about your mother,” the pastor said to Lafayette.

  “Thank you,” Lafayette said. “We’d been expectin’ it for a time now.”

  The pastor unexpectedly turned and addressed me. “I’m Pastor Breedlove,” he said and stuck his hand out for me to shake.

  “Torie O’Shea,” I said. My little bundle of joy decided to give a good swift kick at that moment. I gasped because he or she was upside down and kicked me in the ribs, which in turn made me feel as if all of the air had been shoved out of my lungs.

  “Looks like you’re due about the same time I am,” he said, laughing and rubbing his belly.

  “You said that, not me,” I said. I piled the potato salad on my plate and moved down the line to the baked beans.

  “I hear you are the new owner of the boardinghouse,” he said, following behind me. “Does that mean you will be moving here?”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “I could never leave
New Kassel. And will never leave it.”

  Again, it did not surprise me that he already knew that I was the so-called heiress of Panther Run. Not one bit. It did seem as though he was fishing for information, however. What the heck, I’d make it easy on him.

  “I’ve not decided exactly what I’m going to do about this situation, Pastor Breedlove. Besides, I’m not entirely sure that the Harts won’t contest it,” I said and smiled as sweetly as I could at Lafayette. It did not go unnoticed that his potato salad fell into the plate of sliced tomatoes.

  “So, tell me, Pastor. What do you know about a man named Norville Gross?” I asked.

  “Brother Hart was just asking me the same question not two minutes ago,” he said, genuinely. “I don’t know.”

  “Is there a library around here close?” I asked. “So that I don’t have to go all the way down to Charleston to the Cultural Center?”

  “Yes,” he said. “There’s one over the hill in the next holler. Quentinton.”

  “And the county seat?” I asked. “Where is it?”

  “Also Quentinton.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “When is your baby due?” he asked.

  “Not soon enough has become my standard answer,” I said and smiled. “Seriously, it’s due in August.”

  “That’s nice,” he said. “So . . . are you from West Virginia?”

  “No,” I said. By this time I’d made it to the pork steaks. I chose two deviled eggs instead. “My mother was born and raised here. Moved to Missouri in the 1950s. My ancestors go way back in this state.”

  “How far?”

  “Back to when it was Virginia. Back to before it was a state at all. My ancestors were some of the first to spill over the ridge. Did you know that even the Native Americans thought that this land was too hostile to live in all year around?”

  “No,” he said. “Afraid the only thing I know about the Indians is the Morris Massacre.”

  “Oh, yes,” I said, aware of the story of Mr. Morris and his ill-fated pioneer family. “Well, there’s lots more to know about Native Americans than that.”

  “What are you?” he asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your nationality?”

  “I’m an American, silly.” With that I walked away, shoving a deviled egg in my mouth as I went. I sat down across from Gert, and as I had expected, she was already finished eating.

  What I hadn’t expected was for Pastor Breedlove to follow me to my table, with Lafayette Hart on his heels, and sit down across from me. “We’re all Americans,” he said. “But what were your ancestors?”

  “Little bit of this, little bit of that. Basically, though, my ancestors from this area were Scotch-Irish. Just like everybody else’s in this area,” I said. “Why the interest in my ancestors, Pastor?”

  “Just wonderin’ if we were related,” he said.

  “Go back a few generations, I wouldn’t doubt it.” And that was a fact. I have a cousin who is my cousin so many times in so many different ways that we are more related to each other than if we were brother and sister.

  “This is my grandmother,” I said. “Gertrude Crookshank. Originally, Seaborne.”

  “Seaborne?” he said and nodded at her. “Nice to meet you.”

  It was quiet a moment until Lafayette finally spoke up. “Gertie’s mother was Bridie McClanahan.”

  Now I doubt seriously that Pastor Breedlove was old enough to remember a woman who had died very young in 1926. But the look on his face said that he at least knew of her. “Bridie Mac,” he stated.

  “Excuse me?” I asked. “What do you mean, Bridie Mac?”

  “ ‘Lies all those lies, sharp as a tack. Need to keep a secret, tell Bridie Mac,’ “ he chanted.

  I cannot tell you the peculiar feeling that crept down my spine, causing goose bumps to break out along my neck and arms. Was this something he had just made up? If so, why? And if it wasn’t something that he had just made up off the top of his head, its implications were quite disturbing.

  I was speechless, unable to say a word. I suppose the look on my face relayed everything I was feeling and thinking, because the pastor became very somber and apologetic. “Forgive me,” he said.

  “What. . . what was that?” I asked. I looked to Gert, who seemed as disturbed as I, but in a different way.

  “You know those rhymes that kids on the playground chant when they’re a-doin’ things like hopscotch? Somethin’ I heard as a kid,” he said. “I didn’t mean to trouble you.”

  “Not at all,” I said, recovering enough to take a bite of some excellent potato salad. We all ate in silence for a few moments. Two little girls, in their frilly Sunday best, ran around the churchyard :hasing each other with chocolate ice-cream cones. I really wanted to talk to my girls.

  “So, tell me, Lafayette,” I said. “I had a cashier at breakfast ask me something about two miners who either disappeared or had some terrible fate befall them. Do you know what she’s referring tor

  Lafayette snapped his plastic fork in two trying to pick up a piece of his pork steak. “Mm, not sure.”

  “It was said in reference to your mother and the boardinghouse. The woman said that now we may never know what happened to those miners. What was she talking about?” I asked.

  Lafayette looked good for his seventy-one years. He normally had healthy coloring, but at the moment he looked a little peaked. He didn’t get a chance to answer me, Pastor Breedlove answered for him.

  “Oh, she’s probably talkin’ about those two miners a long time ago that went a-missing and nobody ever saw again. Rumor has it,” he said, raising his eyebrows so as to appear mysterious or spooky, “they was last seen in the company of Brother Hart’s mother, Clarissa.”

  I loved the way he just told me all of that without a second thought. It was clear that this was something Lafayette either didn’t want me to know or was trying to think of a way to express. Pastor Breedlove saw no danger in it, so he just came out with it. All I could do was nod and say, “You don’t say, Pastor Breedlove. You don’t say.”

  Twelve

  Are you being a good girl?” I asked. I stood in the great room of the boardinghouse, scratching my belly with one hand and holding the phone with the other.

  “I’ve been good, but Rachel is seriously disturved, Mom,” Mary answered.

  “That’s disturbed, with a b,” I said.

  “Whatever,” she said. “She likes Brian Filmore, and he’s, like, the rudest boy in the whole school. And just because I told him that she liked him, she punched me in the head and now I have a big bruise.”

  “I’ve told you before, you’re not supposed to do that sort of thing,” I said.

  “Yeah, but she coulda killed me! She punched me right in the head. What if I get a tumor?” she asked.

  “You won’t get a tumor from that. You be nice to Rachel,” I said. “Put her on the phone.”

  Mary pulled the phone away from her mouth maybe an inch or two and yelled Rachel’s name at the top of her lungs. I jerked the phone away from my ear as the shrillness of her scream went straight to my eardrum.

  “Hello?” Rachel said. I could tell that she picked up the other phone instead of taking the one that Mary was holding.

  “What are you doing punching Mary in the head?”

  “Hi, Mom. How are you?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “You’re not being good like I asked you to be.”

  “She told Brian Filmore that I wanted to kiss him and I can’t stand him—”

  “Uh-uh,” Mary butted in. “You like him, yes you do.”

  “All right, Mary, get off the phone,” I said. After several moments of protestations she finally did as I asked. “Rachel, you’re grounded from swimming for the rest of the week.”

  “Mom!”

  “You don’t go around punching people, especially somebody who’s half your size,” I explained.

  “Do you know what Brian Filmore looks like, Mother?”
Rachel asked, obviously frustrated with me.

  “I don’t care if he looks like Chewbacca—”

  “Chewbacca is adorable compared to him. He never brushes his teeth,” she said.

  “Regardless. It wasn’t nice of Mary to tell him that, but you just can’t go and punch her,” I said. “That’s not appropriate behavior.”

  “Fine,” she said. I could just see her on the other end of the phone tapping her feet and rolling her eyes heavenward.

  What I couldn’t figure out was why Rudy hadn’t grounded her. I guessed he was waiting for me to lay down the punishment. The more Rachel and Mary began acting like sisters, the more Rudy sort of let me decide the appropriate punishment for things. I’m not sure I appreciated my new responsibility.

  “Let me talk to your grandma,” I said.

  “Hello,” my mother said.

  “Hey, Mom,” I said. “So Rudy’s at the ball game?”

  “Yeah. He got two free tickets from his boss, and so he took Chuck Velasco,” she explained.

  “Oh,” I said. “Tell him I called.”

  “You sound down,” she said.

  “I am,” I answered. “I called because I was missing him and the girls really bad, and I get attacked by two quarreling children. Then the man of my dreams is off at the ball game.”

  “Poor thing,” she said in an overly pitying tone of voice.

  “Exactly,” I said. “I’m feeling very vulnerable.”

  “You’ll get over it,” she said. “You always do.”

  “Gee, thanks. Mom.”

  “So . . . how’s the visit going?”

  “Good,” I said. “Clarissa died in her sleep, we think, or she may have been suffocated. She left me the boardinghouse plus ten acres and everything in it, and Norville Gross was attacked by a panther, we think, or somebody could have hacked him up. He didn’t survive. All in all it’s been a fairly exciting vacation.”

  My mother was quiet on the other end. “You’re not joking,” she said.