Signs in the Blood (3 page)

“That's really nice of you but Janie's got some big paper due next week and I expect she'll be hard at work all day Sunday. But I'll be there. It'll be nice to see you again . . . under different circumstances.” Hawkins had sounded so enthusiastic about the invitation to lunch that Elizabeth unexpectedly found herself beginning to look forward to seeing him again.

Humming to herself, she dumped out her now cold coffee, poured a fresh cup, and went to sit on the front porch and watch the stars come out. A chorus of spring peepers in her goldfish pond provided the music and a few early lightning bugs rose out of the grass to punctuate the night's darkness. She sat and rocked and thought about what she would fix for lunch on Sunday.

Elizabeth was in bed by nine.
Not quite as bad as Hawkins's aunt,
she thought,
and anyway, I'm not going to sleep; I'm going to read a while.
She reached for one of the
New Yorker
s from a pile by her bed and, after enjoying the cartoons a second time, settled down to a funny piece by Calvin Trillin, always a favorite of hers. That finished, she turned, still smiling, to the featured short story and began to read. It was an odd bit of fiction, well written, of course, or it wouldn't be in the
New Yorker,
she reminded herself, but somehow . . .

She realized that she was resting her eyes, closing them for just a minute before continuing the undoubtedly fascinating piece that, when she had read a little more of it, she would surely appreciate . . .

Zen reading, that's what Sam used to call it,
she thought drowsily as the open magazine slowly settled across her chest. As she sank down into blissful sleep, she seemed to see the slender form of a young girl, wearing the homespun floor-length skirts of an earlier time. The girl's long brown hair framed a beautiful face that was bowed to smile down at the infant cradled in her arms. Her feet were bare and around her neck was a thin gold chain from which dangled a little golden heart.

The sharp buzz of the phone beside her bed startled Elizabeth awake and she picked it up on the second ring. The bedside light was still on and the little clock beneath it said nine-thirty. The caller was Louvanda, Dessie's daughter, and Elizabeth already knew what she had to say.

“'Lizbeth, I'm sorry to be callin' so late but I wanted you to know that Mommy's gone home to Jesus. It was right at supper time . . . she just slept away so sweet and peaceful.” Louvanda's voice was composed as she continued. “They'll be a viewing Thursday at the funeral home in Ransom and Friday we'll have the buryin' here.”

Elizabeth pictured the little family cemetery on a hilltop behind Dessie's house. Dessie had always mowed and trimmed it weekly during the growing season, adorning the graves with bright plastic flowers—yellow, pink, and blue on Decoration Day, then replacing them with plastic poinsettias in December. Odus rested there, as well as an infant son and daughter of his and Dessie's. “I'll be there, Louvanda,” Elizabeth promised, her throat suddenly tight as she realized that her old friend was indeed gone. “Can I do anything to help?”

“No, 'Lizbeth, we'll make out just fine. Besides, I just talked to Miss Birdie and she says she's aiming to get you to help her hunt for Cletus tomorrow, if the sheriff ain't found him. Reckon she wants you to take her in that jeep of yours up some of them steep back roads her truck can't climb.”

But in the end, they didn't have to hunt for Birdie's missing son. Early the next morning a kayaker on the French Broad found a body in the river a few hundred yards beyond a train trestle. It was Cletus.

CHAPTER 3

T
HE
H
OLINESS
C
HURCH OF
J
ESUS
L
OVE
A
NOINTED WITH
S
IGNS
F
OLLOWING
 (
S
ATURDAY
N
IGHT)

S
ALEMMA LOCAMA, SALEMMA LOCAMA, ASONAMATEE
maleeko . . .” Aunt Belvy Guthrie's voice was hoarse and beginning to crack but it rose above the ragged sound of the guitar and the insistent jingle of the tambourines. The prophetess of the Holiness Church of Jesus Love Anointed with Signs Following had made her way to the front of the sanctuary and was speaking in tongues.

“Praise God,” someone called out, and most of the congregation began to pray aloud, not the same prayer but individual outpourings of emotion. Men and women standing, kneeling, swaying, sobbing, rejoicing—each one speaking directly to God in fervent, personal tones of praise and supplication. The clamor of voices and music rose in a crescendo and Aunt Belvy's long white hair began to shed hairpins and escape from its knot as the old woman's head swung in ecstatic circles. Miss Birdie punched Elizabeth in the ribs with her elbow and whispered excitedly, “She's gettin' close!”

Five short days had passed since Dessie Miller's death and the discovery of Cletus's body on the rocks of the French Broad River. Only yesterday Dessie had been laid to rest in the little hilltop graveyard, but Cletus's remains were still in the Asheville morgue, awaiting the autopsy mandated by the state for “unattended” deaths.

Miss Birdie had appeared on Elizabeth's front porch early Saturday morning, flushed and exhausted from the hike up the steep road that her battered old truck couldn't climb. “Why didn't you call me?” Elizabeth had demanded. “I would have come over.”

“I know you would of, honey. But I just took me a notion to walk while I still can. Let me just set here in this rockin' chair and get my breath.” Finally, after a glass of water and the usual mountain courtesy of small talk before asking a favor, Miss Birdie had come to the point.

“Sheriff says hit were likely an accident,” she informed Elizabeth. “He thinks Cletus was a-crossin' that trestle at night and done lost his balance. But, Lizzie Beth”—the little woman had balled up her frail fist and banged it down on the flat arm of the wooden rocker—“there weren't no way Cletus would of gone out on that railroad bridge. That boy was just naturally afeared of heights! Why, he'd get all swimmie-headed just going up a ladder. He'd even unch way down in the truck when I had to drive us across the big bridge over the river. There ain't no way anybody can tell me Cletus went to cross that high up old trestle where you can look down between yore feet and see the river and the rocks.” Birdie's voice was urgent and her wrinkled face had been deeply troubled. “Lizzie Beth, honey, I got to know what
really
happened.”

Then she had paused, as if to collect herself, and had looked out across the valley where the morning mists were rising up from the river toward the warmth of the sun. “Ay law, hit's purty up here, Lizzie Beth. Makes a body see why you put up with that steep old road.”

The little woman had slumped back in her rocker and seemed to look inward. Her face was sad but after a moment she smiled weakly and gestured toward Ben's cabin. “You know, hit was right over yon where Little Sylvie lived.”

Elizabeth followed her gaze. The one-room cabin was said to be about a hundred and fifty years old—the oldest on the branch. Hastily constructed of small logs that one man could lift, it had nevertheless been in continuous use up to the 1950s. Its dry-laid stone chimney still stood square and true, and Ben had rechinked the gaps between the logs. A gnarled apple tree and an overgrown mass of orange daylilies beside an old-fashioned deep pink shrub rose gave evidence of past occupants. The cabin had been built just uphill of a huge flat rock that reached head-high next to the cabin and sloped to waist height at the front. Elizabeth remembered lying on that rock with Sam beside her on a warm August night, watching the Perseid meteor shower trace glowing trails across the deep black velvet of the summer sky.

“You know, Lizzie Beth, I'd plumb forgot that ol' story till poor ol' Dessie started in to talkin' about hit when I sat with her that last day. Wanderin' in her thoughts she was, like they sometimes do.” Wiping her eyes on her sleeve, Birdie added, “Ay law, I do miss Dessie. Seems hard to lose her and my boy all to once.”

Hoping to distract Miss Birdie from her grief, Elizabeth had replied, “I don't know the story about Little Sylvie. Dessie just said she was a wild girl.”

“She was a shameless huzzy, leastways that's how I heared it. Her folks was the Bakerses, lived in a big old two-story log house down there where yore rent house is. That log house burnt up back in, let me see, I believe it was '52. Anyhow, they say Little Sylvie married a rich man, a Mr. Tomlin from Tennessee. He must have been a good somebody; it was him give the money to build the church down on the branch. Him and Little Sylvie lived for a time in that cabin right over yon, but they say he was aimin' to build a big fine house down by the river.”

Miss Birdie was, like so many of the older generation in these mountains, a born storyteller. For the moment, her losses seemed forgotten, and she spoke of a time she had never known as if it were personal experience.

“Why, Little Sylvie's husband worshipped the ground she walked on—wouldn't hardly let that girl out of his sight. When Little Sylvie had a baby, that man was the proudest daddy around though hit weren't but a girl-child. And when that child was still but a titty baby, Sylvie, she up and run off with some feller and never come back. Some folks said that her and her new man stayed up on the mountain, like wild Indians. (I believe hit was a Johnson boy whose family lived over to Walter and Ollie's old place that she took up with. Seems like his given name was Levy or some such.)

“Howsomever, the way they tell it, for a time him and Sylvie lived in a cave partways up the mountain. Course there ain't no caves on Pinnacle, but I believe they must have been namin' that place up from yore house where them big rocks leans together. I know my boy sheltered there one time when he was a-huntin', and Cletus he said it was as dry as ary house but hit gave him bad dreams and he swore he'd not go back.”

“I never knew there was anyplace like that up the mountain, Miss Birdie. I can't believe my girls didn't discover it, as much as they liked to roam around.”

“Ay law, Lizzie Beth, Cletus said he wouldn't have known about it iffen hit weren't for Pup, no, hit was afore Pup's time; hit would have been old Rover that chased a rabbit or some such varmint into it. Cletus called and old Rover didn't come out so Cletus went atter him. That boy allus was plumb foolish over his dogs. Cletus said he had to get down and squinch under a big ledge for a ways but then he got to a place like a nice room, most big enough to stand up in. He reckoned the Indians might of used it way back for he saw they'd been a fire in there and that they was bones scattered around. I told him not to say nothing about it for fear yore girls would try to go in there and get snakebit.”

Miss Birdie had smiled sadly at this memory of her lost son, then resumed her tale. “Now, the way they tell hit, atter a time, whilst they was livin' in this cave, Little Sylvie took a notion to see her baby and she come back to the cabin but her husband wouldn't let her in—slammed the door in her face. So she clumb up on that big rock out front of the cabin, thinkin' to see the baby through the window. Now, Little Sylvie weren't but a little bitty thing and the window too high. So she'd jump up and catch at the windowsill and hang there a-lookin' in but then she'd lose her grip and kindly slide down the logs. Mamaw said that she had seen the scratch marks on the logs where Little Sylvie had clung, a-tryin' to see her little one. Mamaw allus said that hit was a sight to break yore heart.”

“But how does the story end, Miss Birdie?” Elizabeth had asked.

“They say Little Sylvie and Levy Johnson run off, never to be seen again. They say she stole her daddy's shotgun and her husband's gold. And I think that the little baby died.” Miss Birdie frowned. “But that story don't sound right, do it? Hit's always puzzled me some—what for would she go off when she wanted to see her baby so bad that she left scratch marks in the logs? And why didn't no one ever blame her husband for not lettin' her in to feed that baby?” The old woman shook her head. “Ay law, they tell these stories, but I reckon sometimes they don't get 'em just right. One'll say one thing and another'll have it to be different. But hit was a hundred year ago and I guess hit don't matter to no one anymore.”

Miss Birdie had rocked in silence for a moment and then had said, “Lizzie Beth, I need for you to do something for me.”

“I'd be glad to,” Elizabeth had replied, happy for any chance to help her friend. “Do you want me to talk to the sheriff for you, Miss Birdie? I could tell him about Cletus and how he was afraid of bridges.”

“Honey, I done told him that. He just don't want to pay no mind. No, Lizzie Beth, I got another thing to ask of you. If you don't care, I want you to go with me to that Holiness church over there in Cocke County, Tennessee. They's a woman I know over there named Belvy; they call her Aunt Belvy, and she's a prophetess in the church. When she gets the spirit on her, she can see things that's hid. She's found lost things for people back of this. I want her to tell me what went with Cletus's shotgun.”

“His shotgun?” Elizabeth had asked in bewilderment.

“Yes, his shotgun. They didn't never find it in the river nor up on that trestle neither. Cletus may of been slow, but whiles he was livin', he would of held on to that there gun. He was so proud of it . . . cleaned it all the time . . .” Miss Birdie's voice had faltered and she had looked away before continuing. “What I think, Lizzie Beth, is that somebody knocked my boy on the head and then threw him in the river. And if Belvy can tell us where that shotgun is, we'll be closer to findin' out who done it. They're holdin' a meetin' tonight and I'm askin' you to drive me over there 'cause I can't drive that far after dark and 'cause I know you ain't afraid of snakes.”

Snakes. The two plywood boxes that sat beneath a table at the front of the room were an ominous presence. So far no one had touched the boxes or even alluded to them, but Elizabeth was constantly aware of their squat brown shapes, pierced with air holes in cross-shaped designs. The boxes seemed to exist within their own quiet circle of menace, untouched by the praying and singing that filled the church.

“How do you know about this Aunt Belvy?” Elizabeth had questioned Birdie as they drove the winding road over the mountain and down into Cocke County with its rolling farmland stretching out before them, warm gold in the mellow light of the late afternoon.

“Law, honey, Belvy used to live on Ridley Branch, up there where those McHenrys are now. Her and me been friends since we was young uns. Now, she was always real big in the church—there ever time they cracked the door. But then her and her man quit the Freewill Baptist church and took to going to a Holiness church they used to be over on Rocky Fork. Her husband and both her growed boys got to preachin' and to handlin' them snakes. And then, atter a while, Belvy got the gift of prophecy. Some says hit's the devil, not the Holy Spirit workin' on those folks, but I don't believe that. I've knowed right along that Belvy is a good woman. Howsomever, when one of their members got snakebit and died of it, the law shut that church down. Well, Belvy and her family and a whole bunch of them Holiness people just up and moved to Tennessee and opened them another church.

“They don't handle ever time,” Miss Birdie had told her. “I called Belvy to ask could she help about Cletus and she said I'd have to come to church and see did she get an anointin' of the Spirit. She said she couldn't tell nothing without an anointin', just like wouldn't no one handle a serpent without the Spirit was on them.”

Well, it sure looks like the Spirit or
something
's on a bunch of them right now,
decided Elizabeth, watching the small congregation on that Saturday night. The cacophony of prayer had died down and the worshippers had resumed their seats, but three women still stood, arms uplifted, eyes closed, and tears streaming down their shining faces. Aunt Belvy alone continued to speak, but the incomprehensible syllables of the gift of tongues suddenly segued into recognizable language.

“Seek and ye shall find, yea, there's one here who seeks an answer.” Like a stately ship, Aunt Belvy made her way through the parting throng of worshippers to the back of the church where Elizabeth and Miss Birdie sat. Birdie was gazing openmouthed, her eyes fixed with rapt attention on the prophetess.

Aunt Belvy was a big woman, tall and powerfully built. In spite of her age
—She must be in her eighties,
thought Elizabeth—she stood straight and moved gracefully. Her flowing white hair, now completely freed from its knot, was bone straight and fell to the waist of her ankle-length print dress. She had high cheekbones and dark eyes, and Elizabeth found herself wondering if there was Cherokee blood in this alarming but undeniably impressive personage.

“Lift up yore eyes unto the hills from whence cometh yore help.” Birdie rose unbidden, as if lifted by invisible strings, and stood looking up at her old friend. Aunt Belvy rested her two big hands on the smaller woman's shoulders and continued. “In the dens and in the rocks of the mountains they try to hide. But the righteous will seek them out and the truth will be known.” Aunt Belvy's eyes were closed now and her head was thrown back. “The sanctuary in the wilderness is red with blood, and the wicked rejoice. But a day will come when the veil is lifted and the truth is shown.” The sibyl's eyelids fluttered open, revealing only white. She turned her head and Elizabeth felt the sightless eyes stare down at her. A feeling akin to panic rose in her as the old woman declaimed, “Woe to the sinner for she shall ride with death. Death and corruption wait within her gate and her child shall weep in the wilderness.”