Old Wounds (13 page)

“You folks in the market for good help?” she rasped. “I work cheap. Cook, clean, take care of kids? Hell, I’m a goddam Mary Poppins.”

“Thanks, but we’re looking for Mr. Mullins. Is he here today?” Elizabeth attempted a nonchalant demeanor as she and Phillip made their way through the lounging residents, who watched their progress with varying degrees of interest.

“Moon? Shee-it,
Moon’s
here every day.” A gaunt black man seated next to Mary Poppins looked at the cheap watch on his wrist. “Meetin’ ought to be windin’ up right about now. Go on in; closed meeting but you can wait in the hall.” As they entered the wide hallway, its yellow-painted walls covered with motivational posters, rosters, and sign-up sheets for various activities, the door to the right swung open and a swarm of chattering people surrounded by a fog of cigarette smoke poured out into the hall.

Most kept moving toward the front door; a few started for the broad wooden stairs that swept majestically toward a landing graced by a full-length stained-glass panel depicting Jesus as a gentle shepherd; and a small group made for the door at the back of the hall, from which issued the industrial clatter and steamy odors of an institutional kitchen.

Elizabeth and Phillip stood transfixed as the swarm of humanity surged around them. When the hallway cleared, they saw a tall thin figure coming slowly out of the room. His arm was around a well-dressed man who seemed to be in the throes of some deep emotion.

“Thank you, Moon. I…I can’t tell you what it means.” The well-dressed man had his hand over his face. Phillip took Elizabeth’s arm and swung her around to put their backs to the two men. They stood there, pretending to study the poster of a kitten dangling by its front paws from a branch. “Hang in There,” the poster urged.

“It’s an AA meeting,” Phillip whispered. “Most of the participants take the anonymous part very seriously.”

Behind them, good-byes were being exchanged. There was the sound of the front door opening and closing. Then a quiet voice inquired, “How can I help you?”

She would have recognized him anyway, she decided. The silver-blond hair was mostly silver now and the pale blue-gray eyes were clear instead of reddened. Moon’s face, once puffy and soft, was now thin and ascetic. But the gentleness of his manner was the same, as was his careful selection of each word. Yes, she would have recognized him anywhere.

“Mr. Mullins—Moon—I don’t know if you remember me…Elizabeth Goodweather? We lived in the holler next to you…out on Ridley Branch—”

The tall thin man took a step toward her and held out both hands. “Elizabeth! I’m…I’m amazed! How long has it been? You’ve hardly changed, but…” He eyed Hawkins curiously. “Sam?…”

Moon Mullins, it turned out, did not know of Sam Goodweather’s untimely death six years earlier.

“I stay so busy with the work of the foundation…and I rarely read the newspaper or hear the news. I got out of that habit during my lost years.”

A rueful smile played across his still-handsome face. “Almost ten years gone from my life forever. After Maythorn…went away, everything fell apart. I know now that I was a drunk back then—had been a drunk for years. But it took the…the tragedy to bring things to a head. I fell so deep into the bottle that I lost my wife and daughter; my son went back to his mother. My drinking drove them away and I became the lowest of the low.”

A slow smile played across his features as he went on. The familiar words, polished to smoothness by frequent repetition, slipped easily from his lips. “And the Lord saw me in my wretchedness and took pity on my misery. He led me to an AA meeting and step by step I came back to the world, to the pleasures of a cool glass of water, the low voice of a friend, the glory of the morning sun. I had been a stranger to these simple gifts for too long, wandering in low dives and dark streets.”

A quiet radiance shone from his face. “I’ve been sober for nine years, eight months, and four days. When I turned my life over to a higher power, I also turned over my assets. Now that I have nothing, I find that I have everything. The foundation and the people we help are my life.”

Moon led them to his small, starkly furnished office, where he offered them coffee in plastic foam cups. He listened gravely as Elizabeth explained her mission, saying when she’d finished that he was willing to help in spite of being dubious of any positive outcome. “And little Rosie’s a professor of English now? It hardly seems possible. So many years gone, so much lost to me now.”

He sat, head bowed, looking at his folded hands. Elizabeth followed his gaze and noticed that the wrist of his left hand was heavily scarred.

“Mr. Mullins, there’ve been some problems with trespassers on your property out in Marshall County—” Phillip began.

“Not
my
property, Mullmore belongs to the foundation,” Moon corrected him. “I own nothing now—the land and buildings on Ridley Branch belong to Redemption Way—and very soon we hope to begin work to turn Mullmore into a retreat for recovering alcoholics. It’s my hope that Mullmore’s tragic past will become a future of hope for many.”

He glanced at his cheap wristwatch. “I have an interview scheduled in a few moments. Was there—”

“I was hoping that you could tell me how to get in touch with Patricia. I thought I heard she’d moved away.”

“She did, for a time.” Moon’s face was tragic. “It was my fault; the booze had such a hold on me that she didn’t want me around Krystalle. I don’t blame her anymore. When we divorced she managed to forbid me any contact with my daughter—I haven’t seen Krysty since then. But they moved back to Asheville five or six years ago. You’ve heard her, I’m sure. She went back to her maiden name—Patricia is now Trish Trantham…she dispenses advice daily and nationwide. You know—‘Tell Trish.’”

10.

M
EMORIES AND
M
ESSAGES

Sunday, October 9

“‘Tell Trish’—
that’s
Patricia?”

Even Elizabeth, who rarely listened to the radio or read newspapers, had heard of Trish Trantham. Highly in demand as a motivational speaker, Trish Trantham also wrote a weekly column, and her syndicated radio show was a part of the national consciousness—or conscience, some claimed. Blazoned in dashing emerald-green script across the façade of one of the largest spaces in a shopping center in West Asheville, the increasingly familiar logo “Trish Trantham Lifeworks” marked the headquarters of a swiftly expanding empire.

“That’s Patricia.” Moon stood, looking toward the door. “After the loss, we both made radical changes in our lives. Please let Rosemary know that I’ll be happy to talk with her if it will help. I’m sorry there isn’t more time just now, but I have an appointment.” The door opened and a dark-skinned young girl wearing a short tight skirt, platform heels, and a black bustier stood looking blankly at them. Her face was heavily made up and her garish yellow-dyed hair was braided into neat cornrows.

“Hey, Moon, I’m here like you said. You want me to…” She jerked her head toward the door.

“That’s all right, Soledad, these friends are leaving now.” Moon put out his hand. “Elizabeth, it’s been good to see you. Mr. Hawkins, a pleasure to meet you.”

As the door closed behind them, Elizabeth caught a glimpse of the girl walking into Moon’s outstretched arms.

The lawn chairs were all still occupied, and as Elizabeth and Phillip made their way back to the jeep, two men left their seats on the lawn and trailed after them. The self-proclaimed Mary Poppins called out, “You been talking to a goddam
saint;
you remember that!”

The larger of the two men, a hulking heavyweight, came up beside Phillip and jabbed a sausagelike finger into his arm. “You hear what she said? All of us at Redemption House feel that way. Moon looks after us and we look after him. Don’t want no one comin’ around giving him any trouble, know what I’m sayin’?” Again the finger prodded, deeper and harder.

Phillip looked up placidly at the dark figure looming above him. “Hey, man, we got no problem here. This lady is an old friend of Moon’s. Relax.”

“Well, I
was
a little disappointed,” Elizabeth told Phillip as they drove off. “I thought maybe you’d do some fancy police detective move and flip that big guy over your shoulder when he poked at you.”

“Sweet Jesus, woman, did you notice that hulk had about five inches and a hundred pounds on me? Who do you think I am—Jackie Chan?” Phillip shot an incredulous glance at her, then grinned.
He looks like a man completely at home with himself,
she thought.
I like that.

“Nope,” he continued cheerfully. “I’m just not that touchy. I learned a long time ago that touchy people don’t live as long as us mellow types.” He looked back at the throng on the lawn and the bulky figure that still stood on the sidewalk. “Mullins has quite an admiration society there. I believe I’ll ask around—find out what kind of rep this Redemption House has. And who the hell is Trish Trantham?”

“Phillip, you really don’t know? And I thought
I
was out of touch with things. Trish Trantham is like…she’s like an advice columnist on steroids. She has a syndicated column and a call-in radio show and—”

He was staring at her in amused amazement. “You listen to stuff like that? Somehow I wouldn’t have figured you for—”

“Just now and then—when I’m in the car and I’ve forgotten to bring along a book on tape.” Elizabeth found herself scrambling to explain. “I’d heard of her—there was a lot of controversy because of some very un–politically-correct stands she’s taken. So one day I turned on the radio, looking for classical music, and it was set to AM instead of FM, and there she was. I had no idea she was my ex-neighbor. She takes these very absolute positions, and the thing I find intriguing is that sometimes I completely agree with her and other times I have to turn off the radio, she makes me so mad with her Bible-based authority and her moralizing attitude. It’s a kind of fatal fascination—like trying to understand how someone who seems so sensible in some ways can come across as a total right-wing reactionary in others.

“But now that I know who she is…” Elizabeth’s jaw tightened and she was silent for a few moments. Phillip waited expectantly, but she didn’t speak, busy with an angry inward rant.
That bitch! Ms. Family Values. There she sits calling women sluts and she
—

“Now that you know who she is…” he prompted.

At last the words came, in a furious eruption. “The woman is a total hypocrite!”

Phillip looked at her in surprise. “How’s that?”

She regretted the outburst immediately. And, unwilling to explain the reason for it, she resorted to a vague, “Oh, I guess it’s just the holier-than-thou attitude that comes across. And the narrow-minded certainty thing. You know, ‘God said it; I believe it; that settles it.’ And the fact that when I knew her she wasn’t…particularly…” Her words trailed off lamely.

“People do change,” Phillip observed, adding, to her annoyance, “Case in point—Moon. From a drunk to a saint.” He plucked the envelope with the Mullins family Christmas card off the dashboard, slid out the photo card, and examined it closely. “He’s healthier-looking now too.” He frowned at the picture. “What about the brother? Is he still around?”

Elizabeth’s attention was focused on the road. “I doubt it; I think he moved to California. He used to talk about wanting to go to…Big Sur, I think it was.” She concentrated on keeping her face expressionless.

“I guess Rosemary can find out when she talks to Moon later on.” With a last glance at the family picture, Phillip returned the card to the envelope. “Funny to think…I mean, there they are, all happy together, good-looking bunch of folks. And a couple of years later…it all falls apart. Looking at this picture, you’d say they had everything.”

He tossed the envelope back on to the dash. “So, what can you tell me about Mike?”

I could have told him that Mike Mullins was one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen, that he was well read, witty, caring. I could have said that there was a time that my blood sang whenever Mike Mullins looked at me.

But, in fact, she had told him none of this. She had muttered a few inanities about Mike’s acting as a role model for Jared, as Moon was a rather detached father. Phillip had not seemed to notice her reluctance to talk about Mike.

And then I did to Phillip exactly what Rosemary did to me this morning. Just left.

Realizing that she could not—
could not!
—discuss Mike Mullins and Patricia—
Trish Trantham, for god’s sake!
—any further with Phillip, Elizabeth had rapidly concocted an excuse: No, she couldn’t stay in town for dinner as they’d planned earlier; she really needed to…to get back home and close up the chickens. She’d forgotten, there had been a marauding bobcat and she needed to close the chicken house door before dark.

He gave me such a strange look. As if…as if he was disappointed in me.

A wave of nausea swept through her body and her eyes blurred.
This can’t wait. I owe him honesty. If we…

Briefly she considered turning back, but then remembering the newly acquired cell phone in her shoulder bag, she pulled to the side of the road and stopped. She was nearly home, only a few miles from the bridge that crossed the French Broad at Gudger’s Stand, but it was suddenly an urgent necessity that she speak to Phillip and unsay the lie.

She stared at the still unfamiliar buttons on the tiny instrument, trying to remember. Recent events had convinced her of the usefulness of a cell phone, and earlier in the week she had made a special trip to Weaverville to buy one. The saleswoman in the cell phone store had made it look laughably easy as she programmed in Elizabeth’s most-often-called numbers. Rapidly demonstrating the various features and modes of use, the woman’s lacquered fingernails had clicked busily on the little keypad as Elizabeth looked on, nodding as if she understood. Now, however, Elizabeth found that she had only the vaguest recollection of how the thing worked.

Okay, this is the power button. Turn it on.
A twiddle of sound, and the little screen lit up. MENU and CONTACTS seemed to be her choice. Dubiously she prodded the tiny button under MENU with her thumbnail. No, that took her to MESSAGES. Over to EXIT. This time she chose CONTACTS. A blue bar highlighted SEARCH.

Right, that’s what I want to do. Now we’re getting somewhere.
She hit the same button and she was back to the choice of MENU or CONTACTS.
Shit!

Angrily, she hit a button at random and found that the screen showed a list of numbers.
Okay. And this center square button scrolls the list up or down.
Yes, here was Phillip’s home phone. And maybe this little button…To her great amazement and relief, the screen informed her that it was calling the familiar number.

She put the apparatus to her unaccustomed ear, thrilled to hear Phillip’s phone ringing. There was a click and the voice mail told her to leave a message.

“Phillip…it’s Elizabeth…. I need to apologize…. I…oh, hell…I need to talk to you. I’ll try your cell.”

Now to end the call. An experimental prod at a likely button informed her that she was now on a loudspeaker. Baffled, she chose the simple expedient of mashing the power button to turn the phone off.

The second call went better as she quickly found the combination that led her to the number for Phillip’s cell phone. She waited eagerly, listening for the familiar gravelly voice, anxious to explain herself, but, once again, was forced to leave a message on the voice mail.

Cursing her own stupidity, she pulled the car back on to the road and continued on her way.

And then she remembered a question Phillip had asked, a question that she had been unable to answer. “What did your local neighbors think about the girl’s disappearance? What did Miss Birdie think? You’ve told me how sharp she is—how nothing happens without her knowing about it. I’ll bet she had an opinion about what happened.”

Elizabeth glanced at the car clock—4:53.
I can run in for a quick visit and ask what she remembers about that Halloween. Then when I talk to Phillip later, at least I can answer that question.

Miss Birdie’s little log cabin was halfway between the bridge at Gudger’s Stand and the entrance to Full Circle Farm. It sat on a low knoll surrounded by what, till recently, had been tobacco fields. The end of government price supports for tobacco, as well as the death of her son two years previous, had meant that now, at eighty-three, Miss Birdie was content merely to tend a large garden. A small herd of a neighbor’s cows grazed happily in the former tobacco fields now.

The plank bridge over Ridley Branch rattled as alarmingly as it always did, but Elizabeth drove across undaunted, noting that the creek was still in full spate after the heavy rains of the week before.