The Secret of the Dark (2 page)

The open stairs at one end of the living room led to the loft. I climbed up first without my bag, as the staircase was steep and narrow, more like a ladder.

I caught my breath. Had anyone been up here since Rue's visit? The room had one window that was closed, but it let in enough light to let me find a lamp switch. The space was small, the ceiling so low on the roof side that I couldn't stand up straight. But worst of all, there were cobwebs in every corner, around the window, and on the rafters. Why hadn't somebody cleaned? And according to Rue, Granny had had some day help until recently. Not very good help, obviously. She'd cleaned only what Granny could see.

I would manage. I would. I would. I stepped back down, careful not to get splinters in my hands from the banister. “Granny, where do you keep your broom?” If I could just get rid of the spider webs tonight

“Oh, my lands, child. Hit's bad luck to sweep a house at night. Cain't it wait?”

I didn't want to tell Granny the condition of the loft room. On the other hand, I didn't need any bad luck. I was trying to hold back the knot rising from my stomach into my throat right then.
You knew you'd be a little homesick, Valerie
, I told myself.
You're just tired
.

Granny had gone into her room. I looked around. There was a couch against the window. There was an afghan on the back of it. I closed the windows and sat down. I took off my shoes, wrapped myself in the afghan, and buried my head in my arms, which were supported by a soft pillow that had
Jesus Saves
printed on it. Holding back my tears, I willed myself to sleep.

CHAPTER

2

D
AYLIGHT
made a lot of difference. I had been so tired, I slept soundly but woke up stiff and creaky. Streams of sunshine poured in the window by the piano, and I felt instantly cheered by the sight.
Never borrow trouble when you're tired
, I thought and giggled. Rue had said that once. I was sure she'd gotten it from Granny.

I stretched, yawned, and felt excitement and energy fill me. My fingers tingled, fairly itching to get to work. I'm a fanatic about cleanliness. I've always been that way, even before I took over cooking and cleaning chores at our apartment. Dad helped, of course, but he was never there for long.

My mother used to tease me about not being normal, as my room was so clean. Even each of my stuffed toys had a place. My piano music was in alphabetical order in my piano bench. Since it was a small apartment, I felt neatness was essential to survival there.

Granny's place was small and badly in need of my talents — or obsession — whichever it was. It had super potential though, so folksy and rustic. I hoped Granny wouldn't mind my taking over her home.

I grabbed my overnight case and tiptoed across the floor in my sock feet toward the bathroom. Peeking in Granny's room, I saw that the lump under the quilt was so slight, she hardly seemed there. I glanced at my watch. Nine-thirty! I'd slept half the morning. I had thought the sun would wake me up. The mountains — that was it. The sun had to come up enough to get over the mountain behind Granny's cabin. But why wasn't Granny up?

This terrible fear swept over me. Someone as old as Granny — eighty-six to be exact — could just die in the night. Suddenly I wanted to shake her to be sure that hadn't happened.

I didn't. I was being silly, and she'd think I was crazy. I forced my feet to move on to my destination and once in the bathroom, the shower beckoned. I felt as grimy and in need of a scrubbing as the cabin. There was hot water, to my relief, and I lingered in it, shampooing my hair even though I'd started from New York squeaky clean. It was as if I needed a new start. I even found myself singing Granny's song in the shower. I was making myself at home quickly. I felt a needed smile turn up the corners of my mouth.

Wrapping myself in a barely adequate towel, I headed out to find some clean underwear and an old pair of jeans. To my relief Granny sat at the kitchen table, her old cup with no handle in front of her.

“Sing before breakfast, cry before noon,” was her morning greeting.

Granny's sayings, Rue called them.
I guess I'd better get used to them
.

“Morning, Granny. Oops.
Morning
probably means before seven
A.M.
It's way past breakfast. Do you always sleep so late?”

“I been up twice, child. Why did you sleep on that couch?”

“I was too tired to get up those stairs again, Granny. I'll move in today. You hungry?”

“Some.” She gazed at the bottom of her cup. I could tell she'd left me. I wondered what she thought about all the time.

I got dressed quickly, fluffed out my hair, put some lotion on my face, and told my stomach to hold on. Food was coming.

Granny had hot water, which turned cold in her cup. She looked at me when I got back to the kitchen. “I couldn't get that new coffee open. I always ask Fleecy but I forgot.”

A full jar of instant sat in the cabinet. I looked around. “How about some real, brewed coffee this morning, Granny?” There was an unopened pound of coffee in the cupboard, and I found an old-fashioned percolator to use on the stove.

“That'd be good. Kin you make biscuits, child?”

I couldn't without a recipe, and I also wasn't up to tackling baking so soon. “How about toast today? Eggs and ham and toast?” There was half a piece of bread beside Granny's cup. How had she managed not to starve?

“Sometimes I kin still cook, but sometimes my rheumatism slows down my ambition,” Granny responded, as if I'd asked my question aloud.

As we sat over a second cup of coffee, which tasted better than I'd thought it would, I offered my suggestions, hoping I wouldn't offend Granny.

“I'm the type of person that likes to stay busy, Granny. Do you mind if I clean a little?”

“Suit yourself, child. I don't much care. Guess the place could use some fixing up.”

That was an understatement. “My name is Valerie, Granny. Some of my friends call me Val.”

“Valerie. That's a right purty name. I knew a girl named Valerie once. She was purty too.” Granny went off into some story from long ago, mumbling as if she were talking only to herself.

I assumed I didn't need to listen to her all the time and got up to do the dishes. My fork fell from my plate and clattered to the floor.

“Someone's coming,” Granny said quickly, returning to the present. “A fork means a man.”

“Then I'd better get to work.” I laughed and sped through the dishes, leaving them on a rack to dry. I was careful not to drop any more silver since we didn't need company until I got the place cleaned up.

First I tackled my bedroom. No more sleeping on the couch. I hung the bed clothes on a line I found outside the cabin near a mound Granny said was a root cellar. The sun would freshen them. There was no vacuum so I banished cobwebs with the broom and then attacked dust with a rag and some lemon oil I found in the bathroom cupboard. The label was old so I knew it had been unused for a long time. It smelled tangy and soon the room glowed. The walls were a rough boarding with knotholes showing. The photos were Rue's. There were trees, rocks, clouds, arty scenery shots.

There was a table and chair in the room, both antiques — or they would be in New York. They were sturdy and made from wood with a beautiful pattern in the grain. I had wiped both pieces when suddenly I cursed my thoroughness. A sharp pain pierced my hand as I swiped across the chair bottom. Tears welled in my eyes, and I squeezed at the splinter that lodged in the palm of my hand just below my third finger. Geez, it was in deep.

I capped the furniture polish and backed down the stairs carefully, rag and bottle in hand. “Granny, where do you keep your needles?”

She came from her room, shuffling along in the house shoes she wore. Beside one of the overstuffed chairs sat a sewing box on legs. I had thought it was an end table. “Tears on your cheeks, child. I told you.”

“You'd cry too if you had this big a splinter.” I snapped without meaning to, sounding like a little kid, but it was amazing how a little thing like a splinter could hurt so much. I picked at it after sterilizing the needle with a match, but it was too far in.

About the time I was giving up and wondering what to do — I couldn't leave a chunk of wood in my hand — there was a knock at the door. I sighed. There was Granny's visitor, and I wasn't surprised if it was a man, like Granny had said.

“Come on in,” Granny called out. Did she always do that? It wasn't safe.

A middle-aged man entered as if he'd been there before. “Hello, Annie. Did your granddaughter get here?”

I wasn't really Granny's relative, but I liked the idea. I'd never known either of my grandmothers. I introduced myself. “Yes, I'm here. Valerie Wreyford, but I guess I'd be Granny's step-great-granddaughter. I shook the man's hand, forgetting the splinter. “Ouch.” I cringed.

“I'm Dr. Gallagher. What's wrong? I didn't think I was that powerful.” He turned my hand palm up and looked at the ugly red welt the splinter had made.

“It's only a splinter, but it feels like a log in there.”

Dr. Gallagher ran his forefinger over the wound. “It's pretty deep. I thought Annie was my only patient, but I see I have two.”

I started to feel embarrassed. A doctor for a splinter?

“Neal, would you bring in my bag?” Dr. Gallagher called back through the screen door. “I hardly ever need it — Annie is so healthy — but I never risk having to climb those stairs twice.” He smiled and his touch was gentle. He was very good-looking, and some gray at his temples made him look distinguished. Not what I would have expected for Catalpa Ridge. That was dumb of me. Had I come here expecting everyone to be a hillbilly? The stereotype you see on television? Surely I was smarter than that.

“I'm very healthy too,” I said while we waited for Neal. “This is a battle wound. Dusting.”

“Dangerous work. Valerie, I'd like you to meet my son, Neal. Sometimes he makes rounds with me.”

Neal was another surprise, and one that made me a bit excited. The boy who entered the living room, carrying the doctor's bag, was a younger version of the doctor. He was as handsome as his father, with that gentle, sensitive look reserved for artists, musicians, and — I guess — doctors. Again I realized I was being narrowminded, but Neal Gallagher could never have been a boxer or a lumberjack. His smile showed perfect white teeth. It took a physical effort to look away, and yet I felt my face heat up, having stared at him.

“I keep trying to interest Neal in doctoring, but he has this obsession with music and storytelling. It'll never bring him any money, but it appears that young people today don't think as much of money as my generation did.”

“Dad just doesn't consider wandering the mountains of Arkansas and recording, work. When are you going to sing for me again, Granny deShan?” Neal asked.

“I'll sing now.” Granny reached for her guitar.

“I didn't bring my recorder,” Neal said.

“Then hold Valerie's good hand. This may hurt a bit.” Dr. Gallagher had swabbed my splinter wound with antiseptic and it stung.

So there I sat, Dr. Gallagher holding one hand, Neal the other, while Granny strummed a few chords. Then she sang a bouncy song about birds courting.

“Hi, said the blackbird sitting on a chair.

Once I courted a lady fair.

She proved fickle and turned her back.

And ever since then I've dressed in black.”

Removing the splinter did hurt, and I jerked slightly when Dr. Gallagher had to cut into the skin to get hold of it. Neal squeezed my other hand, and I hoped if he felt the way my pulse was racing, he would assume it was because of the doctoring.

Granny went into one of her drifting periods when she finished the song, and I turned back to see my hand.

“This is pretty deep. But I'll put this tape on it instead of a stitch. Leave it on tightly and stay away from whatever you did battle with.”

“A chair.” I laughed, looking only at my hand. Then I got serious. “Dr. Gallagher. Why does Granny drift off like that?”

“There's no harm in it, Valerie. Older people often spend a lot of time in the past. You can get her attention if you need to. Just keep Granny fed and happy while you're here. We'd like to keep her out of a home as long as possible. LaRue tells me you're a very capable young woman. And a good cook. I know Annie doesn't eat right. Too bad she can't see how pretty you are. I may have to stop by more often,” he teased.

Then I knew I blushed. I felt I'd pass, as far as looks go, but no one had ever said much to me about the way I looked. I certainly didn't look like the popular girls at my school. I walked out onto the porch to keep from having to look at anyone. I knew Dr. Gallagher wanted to check Granny.

Neal followed me. “Maybe I'll stop by more often too. My summer in Catalpa Ridge has just gotten new life. I wanted to stay in Fayetteville to work. I'm glad I didn't”

“What kind of work are you doing here?” I chose a safer subject than me.

“I run errands for Dad, deliver for the drugstore, anything anyone needs as far as minor medical emergencies or supplies. Sometimes I even take someone to the hospital in Harrison since we don't have an ambulance. I don't want to lead a doctor's life, though.”

“I like music a lot too.” I volunteered the information about myself, realizing I was trying to find a connection with Neal and a reason to see him again. “What kind of music are you studying?”

“Folk. I've been recording all the old-timers here in the mountains for two years. They love to talk and tell stories — most of them are lonely — and some of them sing the old ballads. Granny deShan does. I play a recorder, badly, I'm afraid. Would you like to hear some of the tapes?”