The Secret of the Dark (8 page)

I was used to being called a child by now, even though I didn't want Neal thinking of me that way.

“This is Granny's friend from New York, Mr. Talley. LaRue's stepdaughter, Valerie.”

Mr. Talley shook tobacco from a tiny cloth bag onto a thin paper and rolled himself a cigarette. He lit it and smoked a few puffs before he said anything else. “Yeah. I heard LaRue got hitched up again. LaRue's some woman, by golly. Takes after Annie, she does.”

I started to see how Mr. Talley got his nickname. Then I laughed at a thought. What if Granny's visitor had been Mr. Talley asking her to marry him? She might not want to tell me.

“I brought your prescription, Mr. Talley,” Neal said. “We'd be pleased if you had time to play and sing for us, though. Valerie has never heard a jaw harp played.”

I hoped By Golly wouldn't be so high collared that he would say no. I smiled at my thought “I'd love to hear you play, Mr. Talley.”

“Well, I reckon I could find a tune for two pretty girls. By golly, Annie, you're prettier than ever. You sure you wouldn't like to get hitched? Together we'd own the whole mountain, too. I betcha you still make the best cornbread in Arkansas.”

“You old fool.” Granny sat in a tall-backed rocker on By Golly's porch while he kept teasing her. She just kept rocking. It was funny to think of the two getting married.

By Golly threw away his cigarette and got out a small instrument from his front overall pocket. He held one end in his mouth.
Twang, twang, twang
. It gave off a noise not too far from a stretched-tight rubber band. Then he sang a song called “The Turkey Shivaree.” It had a lot of verses about some sailor sinking a ship by drilling holes in the bottom. Granny started humming before he finished but she didn't join in the singing.

Neal watched By Golly for a while, who'd play the jaw harp between each verse. Then Neal started looking at me till I had trouble paying attention to the music.

“Sing ‘Liddy Margaret,' Hillard,” Granny suggested, ignoring By Golly's nickname.

“By golly, you always did like that 'un, Annie.” He started off again and this time Granny joined in. It was about a woman with yaller hair who died and when her lover died he was buried beside her. Out of her grave grew a rose bush and out of his a briar.

“They grew to the top of the old church tower,

Till they could not grow any higher.

They grew till they tied in a true lover's knot,

The rose bush and the briar.”

Why were love ballads always so sad? I had gotten up quietly and gone to look at the pond and ducks while the old couple sang. At the end Neal stood beside me. He put his arm around me and I didn't move again. We were caught in the bittersweet sadness of the old song.

By Golly kept playing his jaw harp for a time, and the music was rather haunting. Then to my surprise he started up a faster melody, and a thumping sound made me turn around. Granny was clogging to the music.

The sad mood lifted and I laughed in delight. If I lived to be nearly ninety, I hoped I could be like Granny.

“By golly, Annie. You've still got it. We was some team till you run off with that Calvin deShan. Like to broke my heart.” Mr. Talley shook his head with a wistful look on his face.

I pieced the story together. By Golly had courted Granny before she married and again after her husband died. She'd said no both times.

“You're still an old fool, Hillard Talley, thinking I'd marry you. Let's go home, child. I'm feeling a mite dauncy.” Granny was probably tired after a day of shopping and visiting.

“Come back to see me, Valerie.” Mr. Talley walked us down to the car. “Yore a purty sight, by golly, and I get lonely at times. If Annie won't come, you come by yourself.”

“I will, Mr. Talley,” I promised. “Soon as I can.” Maybe I could leave Granny alone for an hour while she napped. I could come over the mountain. And I'd like to hear By Golly's side of the romance. I thought he still loved Granny.

Granny went in ahead of me when Neal walked us back up the stairs to Granny's cabin. I stopped on the porch.

“True love never gives up.” Neal laughed. “How about going out with me some night? Alone?”

“You old fool,” I answered. “I'll think on it.”

I collapsed, smiling, on the living room couch to think of Neal Gallagher while Granny took a late nap. I found I did want to go out with him alone.

Then remembering my mail, I reached into the tote bag I'd dropped beside me and pulled out the stack of letters. Two from my dad, one from Pam, four pieces of junk mail, a letter to Granny from Rue, and … how curious.

The last piece of mail had my name crudely printed in pencil with no return address. A feeling came over me that I shouldn't open it. But curiosity won. My hand trembled as I ripped open the envelope.

CHAPTER

8

I
CAUGHT
my breath. Words had been cut from newspaper headlines and pasted on the paper to read:
Go away. We don't want you here
. A crude joke. But I felt my heart pounding faster.

Who would do this? Obviously the same person who was calling on the phone. But I had thought the phone calls were the random play of kids who were out of school and bored. This was addressed to me, so it was meant for me, not at random but on purpose. It didn't make sense. No one I knew had acted as if I were unwelcome here. Granny needed me. A number of people had said, “We're glad you're here with Granny.” What was the purpose of this childish campaign to frighten me?

I crumpled the letter and put it in the fireplace so Granny wouldn't see it. Even with her poor eyesight she might make out the block letters.

Reading Dad's letter worked toward setting me to rights again. He and Rue were having a wonderful trip, meeting interesting people, having good success with the writing and the photographs. There were delightful anecdotes about the people they'd met.

When Granny got up I read her Rue's letter and parts of my dad's. She enjoyed them. It wasn't time for dinner so I asked Granny to play and sing for me. Before she started I got my tape recorder. I had picked up the best tapes I could find at the drugstore and made a mental note to ask Neal where to buy better ones. I'd brought only my music tapes, not thinking I might like to record anything.

Granny sang a very sad song about a woman who lost her three children.

“A marble stone lays at our heads, Mother,

And cold clods lay at our feet;

And the tears that you will shed, Mother,

Will wet our winding sheet.”

The last notes hung in the air and cast a mournful mood on both of us, bringing back all the feelings I'd had reading the hate letter.

“Aren't there any happy ballads, Granny?”

“Some, I reckon.” Granny struck a happier chord and sang “The Fox Goes a Hunting.” I marveled to see her play with the guitar flat in her lap. The instrument was the color of golden honey and had worn smooth over the years Granny had played it.

“How old is that guitar, Granny?” I asked when the air felt lively and echoed of the fox and his children eating their fill of the goose he'd gotten in the town-o.

“I don't recollect exactly. When I was five my daddy made me a gourd banjo. He made it by stretching a tanned rabbit hide over a dried-out gourd. The strings were horse hairs. I thought it was a wonderful thing. Ker-plink, ker-plink, kerplink, plink, plink.” She laughed remembering it. “Yes, hit was real fine. Now that I start to think on it, this is Mama's guitar. This was my mama's favorite.”

“I'm just a pore wayfaring stranger,

Traveling through this world of woe.

And there's no sickness, no toil, no trouble,

In that fair land to which I go.

I'm going there to see my mother.

I'm going there no more to roam.

I'm just a'going over Jordan.

I'm just a'going over home.”

Granny got quiet and I guess she was thinking about her mother. I couldn't bear to think of Granny moving on. And apparently there were five mournful ballads to one funny one. I decided supper was in order to change the mood.

“I'd sure like me some cornbread, child.”

“Okay, Granny. You rest and I'll make it.” Flipping through the old cookbook, I found a greasy piece of tablet paper with Granny's corn-bread recipe. I was surprised to find it written down. One egg, one cup buttermilk, one-half cup cornmeal. One teaspoon sugar, one of salt, and two of baking powder. One tablespoon of bacon grease or oil. I jumped to find Granny peering over my shoulder as I beat up the quick-bread mixture.

“Now you take the cornbread skillet. Use only this one.” Granny pulled an iron skillet from the bottom shelf that looked as old as her guitar. It was probably her mother's, too, so I didn't ask. “Melt some bacon drippings in it while the oven heats.”

“I lit the oven, Granny.” Every time I did, it scared me. You had to turn on the gas, hold a flaming match inside near the jet, and wait till you got a big
ker-phooomph
. I was sure I'd get singed hair or eyebrows every time.

“When the fat's a' sizzling, you pour in the batter. That's the way.”

I jumped back as the bacon grease splattered and sizzled.

“Now put the skillet in the oven. When the top is set you turn it over to brown the other side. Then don't ever wash the skillet, child. Hit'll ruin it.”

“Don't wash it?” I'd never heard of such a thing. I cringed.

“Jist wipe it out. Hit's seasoned good so the bread won't stick.”

If you say so, Granny
, I said to myself. I heated a can of black-eyed peas that Granny had pulled off the grocery shelf while some pork chops fried. If I had our microwave oven I'd bake potatoes, but since it was too late, I'd settle for a can of creamed corn, heated with butter.

“I always put some bacon grease in the peas too.” Granny sat at the table waiting, as if she could hardly wait for some of her favorite food. The meal went together pretty fast. I turned out the cornbread over a bowl like Granny said, so it wouldn't get soggy. I had started to feel like cornbread was some Ozark ritual performed just so, or it would self-destruct or something. Granny finished my thinking on this just before we started to eat.

“Stop, child!”

I dropped the knife I held over the cornbread, preparing to cut it.

“You'll spile that good bread and I have my mouth set for a big slice.”

“Spoil it? How could I spoil it, Granny?”

“Hit's bad luck to cut cornbread. You have to break it.” Her gnarled hands reached for the crispy round of golden brown bread. She broke it apart, handing me a big chunk. I had lost my appetite, though. Granny's latest outbreak of superstition served to finish me off. The letter and the mournful ballads had set the tone. Then the fact that there were so many rules for eating, that I'd nearly spoiled the bread, was the finishing touch. I felt like that poor wayfaring stranger and I knew for certain that I was in a strange land. One where in someone's thinking I wasn't even welcome. I tried to eat, tried not to succumb to the mood, but I lost the battle. The crispy bread stuck in my throat, and the black-eyed peas looked like bugs floating in the greasy juice. For Granny's sake I pretended, but did more pushing my food around than eating.

As quickly as possible, I cleaned up and put away leftovers. I made Granny a cup of tea but didn't even want that comfort for myself. I wanted to go home. To the tiny apartment where I felt safe. Where I knew the rules. Where I wasn't asking for trouble every time I turned around.

I lay awake for a long time. No tears came but I had to keep swallowing to push the lump from my throat so I could breathe.

It was funny. The night seemed especially noisy now. Cicadas, Granny called them, rattled out their songs, sounding like a thousand tiny marimba players. Once an owl hooted from someplace nearby. Then I heard Granny's mockingbird. Birds even sang at night here.

Finally I drifted off only to have the smothering dream again. This time I woke up wringing wet. It was so hot at night and no air conditioning. No Mrs. Butterworth sat on my chest, but my pillow covered my head. I'd moved and squirmed till I was under it.

I punched a dent in its dampness and tried to sleep again.

For three days the heat was oppressive. Neither Granny nor I did much. Granny didn't seem to mind the heat or the inactivity. She sat and rocked when she wasn't napping. But it wasn't good for me, considering the way the week had started. I needed some activity and I knew I was going to have to invent some.

Quilting didn't appeal to me, despite the beauty of the end product. I wished I could paint. The views all around us were beautiful. Lavender mountains rolled across the sky to the west. Our slopes were covered with wild flowers, and I had made a practice of keeping a bouquet on the kitchen table, picking them fresh every few days. But I hadn't gone farther than seeing distance of the cabin.

“I'm going to nap, child. Peers I sleep a lot now. Like a baby. Guess I'm getting ready for a longer sleep.”

“Don't, Granny. Please don't say things like that.”

“Hit's okay, child. I'd be better off. I'm not much good to nobody.”

It wasn't the first time Granny had talked of dying. I hated to hear it, but she seemed peaceful about the idea. I guess it was normal at her age. But I'd never been around anyone her age before.

A terrible restlessness swept over me. I hadn't had enough exercise. The dance practice was hard to sustain in so small an area and without any reason except to keep limber. We had located a piano tuner but he hadn't come yet.

Maybe … I decided to chance leaving Granny alone for an hour. I'd climb the slope and go over to By Golly's. Get him to play and sing for my recorder. Neal hadn't had time to play any of his recordings for me but maybe when he did, I'd surprise him with a couple of my own.