The Girl in the Maze (10 page)

“You want that ride or not?” James asked.

She closed the suitcases and latched them. She could feel her emotions already changing, her anguish and rage shifting, like a tide, transforming into something else. Hardening.

“Just take me to the gas station on Bay Street, please.”

James helped load her bags into the bed of the pickup and opened the passenger-side door for her. Then he got the truck started and they headed back into town.

The late-afternoon shadows were deepening as the Chevrolet pickup pulled into the Union 76 station on Bay Street. Inside the station, the lights were on. James stopped next to the phone booth, engine running, and Martha got out of the truck.

“Want me to wait?” James asked through the window of the cab.

“Yes, please.”

Martha stepped into the phone booth, leaving the door open, and pulled out her wallet. She hadn't decided whom to call first—Vince, Aunt Lucia, or Lydia? It was doubtful she could find another place to stay in Amberleen for the summer—the Pritchett House was the only place in town that would accept Section 8 federal housing assistance. Anything else would be unaffordable on her intern's stipend. And just a few nights in the Econo Lodge would be enough to wipe out her cash reserves.

Martha decided to try Lydia first. She swung the tattered Amberleen phone book up on its hinge, flipped through the pages, and found the number.

A young woman's voice answered. “The Dussault residence.”

“May I speak to Lydia, please?”

“Just one moment.”

She heard the phone being put down. After a pause, Lydia's voice came on.

“This is Lydia.”

“It's Martha Covington.”

“Martha—funny that you should call. I was thinking about you this evening.”

“Really?”

“Yes. There's something I want to talk with you about.”

“Lydia—I'm calling about the job.” Martha hesitated, looking at the scratches on the phone's chrome faceplate. The truth wasn't going to sound good. “I'm not sure—I may not be able to continue with the job.”

“What's wrong?”

“I'm afraid there's…” Martha heard her own voice cracking.
Hold yourself together, Martha. Can't you at least do that?

“Is there some problem with the position?”

“No,” Martha said quickly. “I love the job. It's just—I've lost my room—the place I was staying in Amberleen. Unless I find another place quickly, I don't know how I'm going to stay here.”

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line.

“Where are you?” Lydia asked.

“I'm at the Union 76 Station on Bay Street.”

“Do you have a place to stay tonight?”

“Well, I could stay at a motel, but I can't really afford it. There's a night bus I can take to Atlanta. But I don't want to do that—I want to stay here and continue with the project.”

“Listen, Martha, you're not going to take that night bus. You can spend the night here, if you want. I've got plenty of room. At least sleep on it before you make any decisions about leaving town. We need you. The project needs you.”

“But where can I stay the rest of the summer? I checked before I came here—there's no other place in town that takes Section Eight.”

“If you want to stay in Amberleen, something can be worked out. I know a lot of people in town. Someone will have a room to let that you can afford.”

“Do you think so?”

“Martha—listen, let's not try to solve this tonight. Can you get over to my house? It's located on Worthington, just a few blocks west of Main Street.”

“Are you sure—”

“No arguments, it's decided. You'll stay here tonight, and we'll work out other arrangements tomorrow. Do you have a way to get here?”

Martha looked out through the window of the phone booth. James leaned against the side of the truck, thumbs hooked in his pockets.

“Yes, I think I have a ride.”

“Good. Go past the main intersection, then turn left on Worthington. I'm the third house on the left. You can't miss it—look for the big two-story with the white columns.”

James pulled to a stop in front of an antebellum mansion fronted by Doric columns and helped Martha unload her suitcases and carry them onto the veranda. Martha handed him a five-spot for his trouble, and he pulled away.

Martha pressed the doorbell, feeling intimidated by the majestic façade, expecting a servant to answer. Instead, Lydia herself appeared at the door.

“Hello, Martha, and welcome. Wanda, could you help Miss Covington with her luggage?”

A petite maid came to the door and picked up one of Martha's suitcases and led her across the marble foyer. She stored Martha's boxes and extra suitcase in a compartment under the wide stairway, then led her up to the second floor and down the hall to a guest bedroom. The room smelled of rose water and was dominated by an antique four-poster bed with a pink satin comforter.

“Tonight is high tea,” Wanda said, placing Martha's suitcase on a stand. “But Mrs. Dussault asked me to hold off serving to see if you would like to join her this evening.”

Martha paused, startled by the offer, but aware of her gnawing hunger. “Tell Lydia I would be delighted.”

“You can freshen up, then come on down in about twenty minutes,” Wanda said.

“Thanks for your help.”

After washing her face and brushing her teeth and putting on the least-wrinkled blouse she could find, Martha felt calmer, more presentable. She descended the marble stairway, the house silent except for the sound of clocks, their soft clicks filling the air with hushed mechanical activity.

She turned the corner and could see Lydia in the parlor, leaning over a wood-paneled cabinet with a hinged lid. Adjacent to her was a white marble hearth, flanked by tall picture windows with fuchsia draperies. Lydia lowered the lid of the cabinet, and the strains of a light, classical waltz lilted through the speakers of the machine.

“Hi, there,” Lydia said, turning toward Martha. “I was just putting on a record from my late husband's collection. I know it's old-fashioned, but I never could bring myself to replace his collection with CDs.”

“I can understand that,” Martha said. “I like the way the old vinyl sounds.”

“Good. Well, I hope you're hungry.” Lydia gestured toward a round table with a lace tablecloth and two chairs.

“I am, as a matter of fact. But it was kind enough of you just to give me a place to stay tonight. It was hardly necessary to provide dinner as well.”

“Just a few hors d'oeuvres, that's all,” Lydia said. “It's what I sometimes do for dinner these days. When you get to be my age, you don't need a lot of food.”

Wanda entered the room, pushing a service trolley containing a silver platter with saltwater crackers, miniature crab cakes, and chilled shrimp. She transferred the platters to the table and filled each of their gold-rimmed teacups from a porcelain pot.

“Thank you, Wanda. That will be all for tonight. Miss Covington and I will clear up.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Dussault. Good night.” Wanda then left them alone, and they took their seats at the table.

“Wanda prepares the most mouthwatering crab cakes.” Lydia spread a linen napkin in her lap and lifted one of the small squares to her lips. “Island recipe.”

Martha tasted one. “You're right. These are wonderful.”

“Unfortunately, this is the last summer I'll have Wanda. But I'm glad, for her sake.”

“Where is she going?”

“Off to the Savannah College of Art and Design, once she finishes her second year at Beaumont Technical College. She's planning to become a designer for the clothing industry.”

Lydia stirred her tea, then looked at Martha. “A lot of people around here seem to be moving on lately. That's why I'd hate to lose fresh blood so quickly.”

“I'd really want to stay for the summer and finish the internship. I'm just not sure I can.” Martha cleaved off a white piece of shrimp with her fork and dipped it into the cocktail sauce. She considered whether to tell Lydia about what happened at the Pritchett House. She wanted to tell someone—badly. But what would Lydia think?

“There's more to this than just your housing dilemma, isn't there, Martha?”

“Maybe. You're aware—you must know that I have a certain condition.”

“My understanding is that you
had
a condition, and are now recovered. Why else would the program have recommended you to us? I don't want to pry, but has something changed?”

“Maybe. I'm not sure.”

“What does your doctor say?”

“I don't know yet. I tried to call him this weekend, but he's out of town until Tuesday morning.”

“Whatever the nature of your condition, you seem perfectly functional to me. And I also know that you're a talented writer. I read the piece that you slid under my door today. I found it quite strong.”

“Thank you.” Martha felt herself starting to blush. She put her napkin to her mouth.

“Martha, I don't know what's happening with you, but we need you for this project. To be perfectly honest, it would be hard for us to find someone else with your ability, considering our current budget status. You're quite a bargain.”

A porcelain clock on the mantel chimed half past eight, and was joined by a muted gong from a grandfather clock in the hall, then a chorus of other chimes and tinkles throughout the house.

Lydia put down her tea and leaned back. “You might look at me and this house I live in, and you might assume that I have a great deal of money. These days, most of it is window dressing, I'm afraid. It's true, I come from a family that once had considerable wealth—old money, they like to call it—but a lot of it was lost shortly before my time. Bad investments. I'm well enough off, but this house, and most everything you see here, are family heirlooms. My point is, the Historical Society is run on a shoestring. We get by on goodwill and an occasional grant from the city council.

“But enough about me. You decide what's in your own best interest. Why don't you talk to your doctor before you make any decisions?”

“I will,” Martha replied. “I'll call him in the morning. It makes me feel better already, just knowing that I'm wanted.”

“I hope I'm not twisting your arm too hard. This island history project has become an obsession of mine, I suppose.”

By the time they'd eaten their fill of the hors d'oeuvres and retired to the sitting room, the last glow of sunset had faded, the crickets were tuning up outside the open window, and Martha was feeling hopeful again.

Lydia placed her cup on a table next to her wingback chair, then leaned over to unlatch a large wicker basket. “Now I'm going to show you another obsession of mine.” She pulled out a large quilt and unfurled it. The quilt was decorated with a primitive yet elaborate appliqué of scenes. The central scene was a large square, where blue fabric was stitched in an amoeba-like shape. Tentacles radiated from the central shape, spilling into the adjacent panels. The word
AMBERLEEN
was stitched across it, and Martha realized that the tentacles represented waterways, the twisting and curving tidal creeks and rivers that surrounded the town.

“This is what's called a story quilt,” Lydia said, draping the sprawling fabric canvas over the chair. “It's an art I learned from the island people. I'm not very good at it, of course, but it gives me a project. Something to focus on in the evenings.”

“It's magnificent,” Martha said. “It looks like something that should be hung in a gallery.”

“You're very kind. I suppose it does have a certain primitive charm. Maybe someday I'll take it to a craft show somewhere, if I can ever finish it.”

Across the top were scenes of early settlers, a log cabin being erected by a community. One square showed a pirate ship, cannons blazing in stars of crimson fabric toward a stone fort on the shore. A third panel depicted a sailing ship with a transparent hull. Inside the hull were simple representations of people, stick figures made of black fabric, arranged in horizontal rows. “That's a slave ship?” Martha asked, pointing.

“Yes. Also part of our history. What I want to do is capture the human story of Amberleen. The good parts and the unwholesome parts, too. The history of white settlers goes down one side, and the islanders, the people who were introduced here from Africa, on the other.”

She pointed to three blocks along the bottom, yet to be filled in. “The end of the story, at least for my lifetime, will go here. I hope it will show the islanders still living in their traditional way, and the people from the mainland bringing their children to listen to their stories, learn about their crafts and their ancient ways. They have so much to share.”

Lydia leaned over the basket again and took out a plastic sewing box, a large wooden hoop, and then a Ziploc bag containing small pieces of colored fabric. She positioned herself on the chair with the quilt across her lap and clamped a large section of fabric into the wooden hoop.

“Here, I'll give you a preview of the next part. It will be the next panel in the story of the island people.”

She pulled the fabric taut inside the hoop and tightened a thumbscrew on the side. Then she poured the fabric pieces from the Ziploc bag on top and arranged them like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

“There. You're the first person to see this panel. Rather nice, isn't it?”

Martha stepped forward to view the tableau on her lap. It was striking in its childlike simplicity, yet somehow evocative. The scene, which filled up the square midway down the right side of the quilt, showed an islander on a narrow boat on a river. The man was throwing a net toward the water, and the net was spread out in midair, like an airborne spiderweb. Below the blue surface of the water a fish loitered, as though in anticipation of the net. Simple representations of white clouds and birds hovered overhead.

The scene reminded Martha of her dream from the night before…the boat suspended in the air, the fish, the hidden hook. The thought gave her a chill, but she pushed it out of her mind.

“I think you are an artist who paints with fabric,” Martha said.

“You're too kind. I'm just an old woman who needs something to do in the evenings.” Lydia took out a long needle threaded with white thread and began stitching down one of the white clouds. “What are your future plans, Martha? In the interview, you mentioned you want to return to college after the internship. But what about after you graduate?”