The Memory Thief (24 page)

When the volunteer returned just an hour later, I sat up in bed, ready with new insults for her. But I didn’t say them. Because
behind the volunteer was someone new. Someone that I couldn’t take my eyes off. Someone that silenced me, made me forget all
the Black Snake curses I had planned to yell.

She was old, with long gray hair covered by a black veil. And a skirt that dragged across hospital dust. The words, the map,
I had memorized deep in the bacca fields started flashing before my eyes.

“Are you a Holy Roller?” I whispered lowly.

She answered me with a cold stare, her mouth set tight and not moving. Her eyes swept over me, searched my face, my body.
She came back to my face and reached her hand toward me. Let it hang in the space between us.

I jerked back. Her hand dropped quickly and she cleared her throat. “I’m a businesswoman,” she said with quick syllables that
could never be learned in Carolina. “I have a resort at the top of the mountain. There is always work to be done. As long
as you work, room and board are provided.”

“Don’t like charity.”

“You and I agree. You’ll work for everything you’re given. And you can leave anytime you’re ready.” She handed me a piece
of paper. “This is my business card. If you agree, let me know and I’ll settle your hospital bill this afternoon.”

I let her card fall from my open hand onto the sheets. But the door was closing behind her and she missed my insult. The volunteer
picked the card off the bed, handed it back to me.

“You need someplace to work
and
live. She runs a bed-and-breakfast on the top of this mountain. You can see the whole world from her view.”

“She’s a Yankee.”

“Turns out they’re not so bad,” she laughed. “She doesn’t pay money, but you’ll have a room and all your meals. You’ll have
a safe place to stay as long as you need. I know her well.”

I imagined all the mean words I could yell to say no. But then I remembered cold mountain winds. I remembered watching the
squirrels eat acorns and feeling jealous of their full bellies. I remembered the glow of dozens and dozens of acres, burning
up the night. And most important, that the policeman was coming back soon.

“Just say yes. Nobody needs you to say thank you.”

I nodded but couldn’t bring myself to look at her. She picked up the phone, made the call.

“The police will be back tomorrow morning,” the volunteer said. “You should leave today. There’s a staff exit on the basement
level. My car is there. I’ll take you.”

One hour later, I was sitting in the backseat of a black Oldsmobile. It was unlike any car I’d ever been inside. It was so
quiet, without the roar of muscle that Daddy loved to hear. And there was so much room. I looked at the floor of that backseat,
and wondered how many five-year-olds could fit in it. At least two or three. Especially if they were like me and small for
their age.

We drove through town, past the scenic path that had nearly doomed me. Then the car turned onto a side road, narrow and winding.
We twisted our way up and up and up. Until we were at the very top and I slid down in my seat.

The volunteer opened my car door and helped me out. I stepped onto that firm mountain ground and looked around. I didn’t know
what I was supposed to do, or if it was safe to stay. I only knew one thing: I wished that you could see my view.

Before I burned Black Snake trailer, I chose things for you. Each with a story. And each offering an excuse. Something I could
hold up, maybe with anger or maybe just sadness, and say
This is why…

But that first day on the mountaintop, I reached for a brochure from a stack on the front porch. I looked at the snapshot,
how it captured the view before me. The sky that rolled forever. Not just a ceiling of blue, but walls, too. And a floor like
a blue rug pushing out from the land. In the middle of clouds rose a red castle built of perfect polished cedar. With odd,
unpredictable angles that left me guessing what the rooms hid inside.

I thought of books then. Growing up, I didn’t just hide the snacks bought with my free government lunch pass. I didn’t just
hide whiskey in an old coke bottle. I hid books, too. Sometimes they were borrowed from my school library. Sometimes they
were stolen from unzipped backpacks on the bus. And underneath those bacca leaves in summer, and hidden in cold barn corners
come winter, a new life waited. I read anything I could find. Vacation guides, fairy tales, inspector novels, and biographies.
I learned my
right words
from them, far more than from my teachers at school.

Momma smacked me whenever I talked like my books. Whenever I said “I absolutely refuse” instead of saying “I ain’t gonna.”

“Don’t you get prissy with me, Miss Smarty-pants. Think you get a few As in school and suddenly know more than your own momma?”

So I hid the books. I made certain I talked like trailer trash. And I whispered my right words only to the bacca, only for
you.

Besides the good words, I studied pictures. Sometimes of castles in the clouds and royal feasts. “Nothin’ but lies,” Daddy
said, if he happened to see me with a book. When he said that, he seemed fatherly. Like he believed he broke my heart. But
what was lies to Daddy was
mercy
to me.

I folded the brochure and tucked it in my pocket, not for excuse or explanation, but for the surprise it might bring you.
Maybe you thought you knew the paths and limits of this world. The ditches from the fields. The kingdoms from the trailers.
I did, too, until I saw the mountaintop and realized there was a richness I’d never imagined. Or maybe you were like me, and
thought mercy and lies were the same thing.
Look,
I dreamed of saying as I held the brochure up.
A castle in the clouds just like in my books. Sometimes lies surprise you. Sometimes they turn true.

I rang the bell. The old woman answered. She looked down at my backpack.

“Is this all of your things?”

“Yeah.”

I tried to look her in the eyes as I spoke.

Mr. Swarm told me once that I could spot a biting dog by whether it looked me in the eyes. He said a dumb friendly one, the kind that would hop in any farmhand’s truck, would lick my hand while staring at nothing in the distance. But a biting dog would look me in the eyes. Give a warning that he might be little, or even starving, but he could still hurt me.

I was a baby when he said it. Watching him chase a stray dog out of the bacca. But I learned it. Practiced it like the survival
lesson it was. From that day on, I looked people square in the eyes. Maybe I was a little girl. Or maybe I was a pretty young
thing dancing in red high heels. I could still hurt you.

But I could not hold the old woman’s gaze. The effort of trying embarrassed me. I brought my eyes up, and then down. Up, and
then back down. Her eyes were too busy, in contrast to the stiff poise of her body. They weren’t hard, or cold, or even heavy
with feeling. They were searching.

“We require a uniform. One has already been delivered to your room. Other basic items, like a toothbrush and comb, I will
send as well.”

I nodded.

“You will earn them.”

“Yeah.”

“Come, I will give you a tour of the house. And explain our rules.”

The angles outside were a disguise. Inside the rooms were open and connected, each one swelling into the next without any
need for doors or division. There was a great room, with half-empty bookshelves that stretched into the open cathedral ceiling.
And a large fireplace, surrounded by cane-seated rockers. Next was the dining room, with a table built to seat thirty. I ran
my hand down the wood. Across knots and deep scratches.

“I bought that at an estate sale outside of Asheville. The seller guessed it was nearly one hundred years old. Made from American
chestnut. All but extinct now. This table is probably the only American chestnut you and I will ever see.”

“Bet with all them scratches you got it for a real bargain,” I said.

She shook her head. “I bought it for the scratches. For dead wood dented by elbows of generations upon generations of families.
For the crumbs of past meals ground into the markings.”

She pointed to a closet in the room. “It’s full of supplies. Anything you’ll need. Polish, cleaners, and brooms. Extra aprons
in case yours gets soiled. We all eat together, here, every night at six thirty. Afterwards, you will clear the table. Pay
special attention to silence. Our guests like to lounge and read in the Great Room before the fire. It is tiresome to hear
the clatter of dishes.”

As we left the room she turned suddenly and stood before me. Her eyes fixed upon my face.

“Tell me of your table.”

“What?”

“Did it have… scratches?”

Stop
, I ordered my hands, as they reached for the memories in my pockets. A reflex, from the pent-up hunger inside me. From the
constant waiting for someone,
for you
, to ask about details. Like the wood of my family table.

“You’re right,” she said, turning quickly. “Most tables aren’t worth discussing.”

We walked through a carved archway that opened to the kitchen where three women were cooking. They looked up and waved.

“This is Jill, Anna, and Shari. You won’t be needed in here, unless of course one of the other ladies is ill or absent. Carry on, ladies. It smells delicious.”

The wood above the back archway in the kitchen was carved:
And having food and raiment, let us be therewith content…
I whispered the words, confusing like poetry. Pretty like it, too. As we walked into the next room, I saw the words again.
Carved upon the cedar beam that spanned the ceiling.

“This is the small sitting room and your daily responsibility. Tidy it as needed. Clean it thoroughly every evening before
bed. There’s a chess set under the cabinet. Learn its pieces. Each night inspect it to make sure they are all there. There
are also books of local photography. Make certain these are accounted for as well. As for other entertainments, television
and radios are strictly forbidden. But clean books, particularly true ones such as these photographic journals, are allowed.
And, of course, good conversation among our guests, perhaps with an apple dumpling and a cup of tea from the kitchen, is always
encouraged.

“This is a mountain sanctuary. A place of refuge and peace from the world below us. If you see guests in this room, and other
duties have been attended to, ask if you can bring them anything. We have handwoven afghans in the Great Room closet. Other
journals and books are in the library next to the upstairs office. Fresh-baked snacks, coffee, tea, and milk are always available
in the kitchen.”

At the top of a wide staircase, two halls branched out and were divided by an open space that viewed the Great Room below.

“These are the Bedroom Halls. Guests on the right. Staff on the left.”

She took a key from her pocket and opened a room.

“This is yours. Rest here until dinner. Afterwards you will clear the dishes and straighten the small sitting room.”

It didn’t glimmer. Or flash the way coins did after a farm-hand set them on a fencepost. But my eyes found the bed in the
corner of the room and would not move.

“Rules of the house: Never go in anyone else’s bedroom for any reason. If there is an emergency that you feel requires breaking
this rule, find me first and we’ll break it together. We hire male and female, but you will never do the same work. You’ll
never have reason to be alone together. Any violations of this rule result in immediate dismissal. Do you understand?”

“Yeah.”

“No cursing. No singing vulgar songs that you remember from the radio. Be quiet around the guests. Don’t try and converse
with them, just ask if they have any needs. If they show an interest in talking to you, be polite but not overly engaging.
Your work here is not social, it is functional. As you clean, be as quiet as possible. We use brooms always. Never vacuums.
Guests come here from their cities and their jobs for the silence. It’s the only way they can hear the mountain. It’s the
only way they can hear themselves. We charge the most expensive overnight rate on the mountain, and are nearly always fully
booked. People pay a premium for the silence. Understand?”

“Yeah.”

“All work is finished at nine o’clock, and you must return to your room. Once in your room, you may stay up as long as you
wish. Now, meals. Breakfast and lunch aren’t communal meals like dinner. Many of our guests request breakfast trays to be
delivered through the slot at the base of their doors. You will help deliver these. Shari from the kitchen will direct you.
Workers’ breakfast is served at six o’clock sharp in the alley behind the kitchen. We haven’t marked the alley room on guest
maps because it is the place for workers to gather for breakfast, lunch, and any short breaks. There aren’t tables and few
chairs. That is because your first two meals are brief. Nourish yourself with the food offered and then continue your work.
Dinner is different. There is dessert and lingering and conversation. But we work throughout the day. All of us. It’s the
reason we can all be here comfortably. You are allowed two other nonmeal breaks between breakfast and bed. There is a master
list of all worker break times hanging in the alley. Your name will be added before morning. If during your break you need
something to drink or perhaps a snack, return to the alley and Shari can help you. If you need to rest, return to your room.
Sitting rooms are for the enjoyment of guests only. There is, however, a check-out system for books. In each sitting room
there is a leather-bound catalog. Inside is a list of materials that guests have signed out. If you wish to take a book to
your room for the evening, you must wait until just before nine o’clock to give all guests the opportunity to sign it out
first. If by five till nine an item has not been signed out, you may do so. But it must be returned before your six o’clock
breakfast. Since the small sitting room is your responsibility, you will also need to monitor the sign-out catalog for materials
in that room. If something has been checked out for more than three days, please notify me. Don’t ever ask a guest about the
materials yourself. That’s it for now. If you have questions, ask. If I’m not available, ask Shari. It’s a simple life here.
Follow these rules. Do your work neatly and quietly, and you may stay as long as you wish.”