The Risen (2 page)

T
hat summer Bill and I worked in our grandfather's office weekdays from ten thirty to six, nine to noon Saturdays. We ran errands or answered the phone if Shirley, who served as both nurse and receptionist, was busy or at lunch, which left plenty of time to read books brought from home or the magazines scattered around the reception room.
On call
, our grandfather said, which also meant under his control. When Grandfather and Shirley left at five, Bill and I swept and mopped the floors, cleaned bathrooms and emptied wastebaskets, disinfected the counters and examination tables. The only strenuous work occurred on Saturdays when we waxed
and buffed the floors. Since the office was closed, we had the place mostly to ourselves. Holding tight to the buffer as it skittered across the floor was like controlling a lawn mower on ice. Bill and I took fifteen-minute shifts, my arms gelid by the time it was done. Afterward, we'd rest briefly in the waiting room with the air conditioning blasting, then lock the door and enter the midday heat.

During the school year, Nebo, our grandfather's mute handyman, did the office cleaning, but come summer he did yard work, as well as fixing leaky faucets, nailing down loose boards, painting, and whatever else Grandfather ordered him to do. On Saturdays while Bill and I worked inside, Nebo cut the office yard with an old side-wheel mower our grandfather refused to replace. Two or three times each Saturday, the mower blades paused and Nebo came inside for a drink of water but also to inspect our work, always pointing out any spot missed.

The salaries we received equaled that of more taxing jobs, such as working on a city grounds crew or at the local sawmill. Grandfather's hiring Bill and me seemed further assurance of what he'd told our mother when the hunting accident left her a widow—that she
and Bill and I would be taken care of. Grandfather owned the house we lived in and let us stay there rent free, all taxes and utilities paid. Our college would be paid for, braces and clothes, whatever other needs. As for the summer jobs, Grandfather could have given us the money outright, but as he told us, it was his duty to instill in us a sense of discipline and responsibility. The jobs fulfilled another purpose though—to keep Bill focused on becoming a surgeon. The office's medical environment helped with that, but the work also kept Bill close to Sylva and away from Virginia, where his girlfriend, Leslie, was home from Wake Forest for the summer.

That Bill would become a surgeon had been decreed when he was still in elementary school. “Look at how he trims the fat off that roast,” Grandfather told our mother. “A natural-born surgeon and destined to be one of the best, just as I and his father would have been. And you, Eugene,” my grandfather added, smiling as he turned to me, “you're not even using the correct hand. I don't know of a single left-handed surgeon. Southpaws see things differently, which isn't what you want from someone wielding a scalpel. It would not matter so much as a GP, but your mother insists on directing
you toward more artistic pursuits.” For one of the few times I ever witnessed, our mother openly disagreed with her father-in-law. “No,” she'd replied quietly, “I merely wish my sons to follow their own interests.”

Grandfather's attempts to shape our futures had started even earlier. The first Christmas present I remember was a black plastic doctor's bag filled with a toy stethoscope and thermometer, a rubber hammer to test reflexes, and plastic scalpels much like picnic knives. There were children's books about medicine, plastic human models with organs and veins. Early on, Grandfather took Bill to the office and on house calls for patients too elderly to leave home. Bill later claimed there wasn't ever a time that he hadn't thought of becoming a surgeon. But how could it have been otherwise?

Our grandfather continued to encourage me to think about a medical career, but only halfheartedly. I occasionally went to his office and on patient visits. If he showed Bill something under his microscope or explained a diagnosis, he might include me, perhaps thinking I might yet become one of the elect. Or perhaps it was a way to diminish my mother's influence.
But once Bill declared premed at Wake Forest, my grandfather never mentioned medicine to me again.

AFTER BILL'S TEASING
about mermaids, the following Sunday I'd decided to stay home and read.

“Bring your book and come with me, Eugene,” he insisted. “I'll lay off the mermaid crap and buy us some Pepsis to drink. All you'll have to do is swim and read. I'll tend the fishing lines.”

“All right,” I finally said.

When we arrived, I laid my towel on the sand and was about to open my paperback when Bill spoke.

“So she is real.”

Downstream, the girl I'd seen last week waded in the pool's shallows, though this time she wore a green two-piece bathing suit. If she'd seen us, she wasn't acting like it.

“Do you recognize her?” Bill asked.

“No.”

“She fills out that bathing suit nicely, don't you think?” Bill said. “Maybe we should go introduce ourselves.”

“I don't know if that's such a good idea. Maybe she wants to be by herself.”

“Well, if she does, so be it, but it won't hurt to find out,” Bill said, and as always, he led and I followed.

She saw us coming and plunged into the deeper water.

“Hey,” Bill shouted. “We just wanted to introduce ourselves.”

We'd run her off again, I figured, but when we got to the pool, she was on the stream's opposite side. Her arms lay languidly on the rock shelf, head and shoulders out of the water, the green bikini top just under the surface. Her long red hair set off her aqua eyes and unblemished complexion. Close up, she looked younger, closer to my age than Bill's. Bright beads circled her neck.
Love beads
, I knew they were called. Affixed to the beads was a penny-size peace symbol. She raised a hand and tucked her dripping hair behind her ears, exposing a pale crescent of breast. I looked away, feeling my face flush.

“What do you guys want?” she asked.

Her accent was that of the Floridians whose second homes dotted the nearby ridges.

“Just to say hello. I'm Bill and this is my brother, Eugene.”

She sank lower in the water, up to the necklace, all the while her eyes on us.

“You're not from around here, are you?” Bill asked.

“No, but I can tell you are,” she said, nodding at our cutoff jeans. “Did those used to be overalls?”

“We're not hicks,” Bill said, his face reddening. “I'm a senior at Wake Forest and we live in Sylva, not out here. Our grandfather, he's a doctor.”

“Hey, don't get so uptight. I was just joking,” she said, then added in the same cool tone. “This grandfather of yours, is his office in Sylva?”

“Yes.”

“I can dig that,” she said.

“So where are you from?” Bill asked.

“Florida, Daytona Beach.”

“Are you here on vacation?”

“Only if you call being bored out of my damn mind for a whole summer a vacation.”

“So your family has a second home up here?” Bill asked, and when she didn't answer, “How'd you get to the stream? I mean, did someone drop you off?”

“Can your brother talk?” she asked.

“Yes,” Bill said, turning to me.

“What's your name?” I stammered.

“Ligeia.”

“That's a nice name,” I said. “I've never known anyone called that before.”

“That's the kind of name I wanted,” she said, “not some moldy old name like Jane.”

“Eugene saw you last week,” Bill said, and grinned. “He thought you might be a mermaid.”

“I did not,” I said, my face flushing yet again.

“Maybe I am one,” Ligeia said, looking only at me. “You haven't checked out my bottom half yet, right?”

“I didn't mean to do that,” I mumbled, “to see you, I mean.”

For a few moments no one spoke. Ligeia closed her eyes and eased under the water and then came back up. She ran a flat palm over her brow and opened her eyes wide, as if surprised that we were still there.

“If you want, you can come up to where we are,” Bill said. “It's a bigger pool.”

“We've got some cold Pepsis,” I added.

“Drinking Pepsis,” Ligeia asked, “is that what you call a happening around here?”

“A happening?” I asked.

“A party, a good time,” Ligeia said, and looked at Bill. “You're old enough to buy alcohol legal like, aren't you?”

“Yes.”

“And you haven't got anything stronger than Pepsi?”

“No,” Bill answered. “I mean, not with us.”

“Then I'll hang out here.”

“Next time we could,” Bill said. “I'll buy some beer.”

“I hate the taste of beer,” Ligeia said. “What about some whiskey, or pot?”

“If I was at school I could get whiskey,” Bill said, “but around here . . .”

“But there's an ABC store in town?”

“Yeah, but buying some there wouldn't be a good idea,” Bill answered, leaving it at that.

“Can you at least score a bottle of Strawberry Hill?” Ligeia asked. “It's like drinking Kool-Aid but I can get it down.”

“I can get that,” Bill said.

Ligeia gazed past us a few moments, then looked down and touched the beads with her index finger, tracing them back and forth along the front of her neck. She resettled her forearms on the rock and looked at us.

“You guys hang out at your grandfather's office much?”

“We work there, cleaning up mainly,” I said.

“I bet there's plenty of sample packs laying around, something to mellow us out, like some Quaaludes or Valium. Bring some of those and I'll show you how we party in the Sunshine State.” Ligeia paused and smiled. “Like your little brother saw last week, I can let it all hang out.”

There is no way we're doing anything like that,
I expected Bill to say, but instead he asked Ligeia's age.

“How old do I look?”

“Eugene's sixteen,” Bill answered. “I'd guess you're at least a year older, maybe two.”

“I think I'll keep you guessing about that and if I have feet or fins,” Ligeia said. “Some mystery always makes a chick more interesting, right?”

“What time will you be here on Sunday?” I asked.

“I'm here when I appear,” Ligeia answered.

She swam into the shadowy water beside the ledge, gave us a wink, and slowly sank. As her head disappeared, the long red hair fanned out on the surface. Then, like a night flower closing, it regathered and was gone.

“Come on,” Bill said, and we walked back to our pool. I reeled in the line to check the bait.

“Sounds like skinny dipping may be involved when they party in Florida,” Bill said.

“Last week, she didn't know we were here,” I answered. “She's wearing a bathing suit now that she knows someone else is around.”

“You don't wear a bathing suit top like that unless you want to be looked at, little brother, though she could be like those summer girls at the pool. They want us to look so they can act stuck up like their parents.”

“I don't think she's like them,” I answered. “Her accent is but her words aren't. They are more like, you know . . .”

“Like a hippie would use,” Bill said.

“She looks like one, the love beads and all.”

“Or pretending to be one, just to act like she's cooler than us,” Bill said. “There are a couple of guys at Wake Forest who do that. They were jerks before they grew their hair out and they're still jerks.”

“I don't think she's a jerk.”

“No,” Bill said, “but I hope she doesn't get sick this summer. Can you imagine how the old man would react? Those beads with the peace sign alone would
send him into orbit. I'm just glad he's so pumped up on my becoming a surgeon. Otherwise, he'd say screw the high lottery number, you're going over there anyway.” Bill paused, his voice mockingly stentorian. “You learn responsibility in war, boy.”

“He'd be glad to send me,” I said, “even if my number was three hundred and sixty-five.”

“Mom wouldn't let that happen,” Bill said, and paused. “I wouldn't either.”

A rod dipped and I reeled in a catfish. I picked it up carefully, avoiding the spiny fin that could slice a palm open. I freed the hook and threw the fish back into the pool.

“We're coming back next week, aren't we?” I asked.

Bill nodded.

“She's right,” he said, “some whiskey would be nice.”

“There's no way Mr. Jenson will sell it to you.”

“I know,” Bill said, “but if her parents are like most of these Florida folks, they have a well-stocked liquor cabinet. I bet she could sneak some out if she tried, at least enough for a couple of drinks, which is all we need anyway. I'm going to go ask her.”

But when we went downstream, Ligeia was gone.

“Let's wait a few minutes before leaving,” Bill said. “I want to see who picks her up.”

We loaded up the truck, turned it around to face the gravel road.

“Where did she disappear to?” Bill asked after twenty minutes. “This road's a dead end. There's nothing after that but forestland.”

“Like I told you last week, she may have come from over the ridge. They could have a place on Chestnut Road.”

“Maybe so,” Bill mused. “When's the last time you were up there?”

“A couple of years ago.”

“I haven't been since high school. Back then it was nothing but trailers and farmhouses.”

“You know how those second homes are,” I said. “They can cover a ridge quick as kudzu.”

“Nice simile. Save that for one of your poems,” Bill said, cranking the truck. We bumped up the skid trail onto the gravel. “You know, little brother, being the shy sensitive artist only works on girls if they
know
you are shy and sensitive. If you just stare at them with your mouth open, they think you're like Nebo.
Comprende?
”