The Risen (4 page)

I
n San Francisco, the Summer of Love occurred in 1967, but it took two years to arrive in small-town Appalachia. There had been a sighting on the interstate of a hippie driving a multicolored minibus in February, duly reported in the
Sylva Herald,
but otherwise the counterculture had been something strange seen on TV, exotic as a penguin or kangaroo tree. That June the only hints of change were a couple of UNC students who'd returned from Chapel Hill with shaggier hair. Our grandfather didn't allow our hair to touch our collars, but Bill wouldn't have worn his long anyway.

On the Tuesday after we'd met Ligeia, Grandfather sent us on our weekly rounds to deliver messages to patients who didn't have phones. They tended to live out in the country so we often passed the town's swimming pool on the way. Bill slowed to look at the girls sunning themselves.

“I thought Ligeia might be out there.”

“She doesn't look like she lies out in the sun much.”

“That's true,” Bill said. “You'd think every girl from Florida would have a serious tan.”

“Maybe she just doesn't mind being different,” I said. “That's not such a bad thing.”

We finished our errands but as we drove back, Bill turned right instead of going straight into town.

“I thought we'd see if Ligeia does live up here,” he said. “If she's outside, we can ask her to sneak out a little of her parents' whiskey.”

We crossed Panther Creek Bridge, then turned left onto Chestnut Road. We passed a few nice two-story farmhouses in the bottomland but as the road wound upward, trailers and weatherworn houses appeared, often with rusty car husks and broken appliances in the side yards. Some of these people were on welfare. We never delivered messages to them, and even when
they made appointments themselves, Grandfather demanded Shirley send paying patients back to the treatment rooms first. On some days, he refused to see welfare patients at all.

“Her parents would want a good view,” Bill said as we passed another shabby house and yard, “so they're probably up top.”

The road curved and we passed another small A-frame,
MOSELY
neatly painted on the mailbox. The grass was cut and the house newly painted, but the lot was small, with nothing to look out at except trees that blocked any long view. A classmate of mine, Bennie Mosely, lived here. His dad worked on the county's DOT crew, as did Bennie during the summer. Mr. Mosely was a lay preacher as well. In middle school, Bennie and I hung out together at recess. Hopeless athletes both, we were always among the unchosen, so we sat on bench ends waiting for the bell to ring. We'd even spent a few nights at each other's houses.

The road continued another quarter mile, but no more homes appeared. This land had been recently clear-cut, the stumps like stones in a country graveyard. The road curved a last time and there were only woods in front of us.

“Maybe she didn't leave until after we had,” I said as Bill turned the truck around.

Then, as we passed the Moselys' house again, Bill slowed. A green bathing suit hung over a clothesline. No one was outside, and though Bill slowed even more, no one came to the door or window.

“So that's Ligeia's vacation home,” Bill said as he sped back up. “Did you catch the name on the mailbox?”

“Mosely,” I answered. “I go to school with Bennie Mosely. He lives there.”

“So Ligeia's his sister?”

“Bennie's sister is your age. Her name is Tanya.”

“I remember Tanya,” Bill said. “She dropped out our senior year, which surprised me, because she was a good student. Maybe she got in ‘trouble.' You know what that means?”

“Yes, Bill, I know what it means,” I answered. “It means anyone who's pregnant.”

“Not anyone, little brother. It's almost always a female.”

“That's real funny,” I muttered, and turned to look out the passenger window.

“Anyway, the last time I saw Tanya she was working at Hardee's. Do you know if she still works there?”

“How should I know?” I asked, still looking out the window. “I don't know much about anything, right?”

“Quit being so damn sensitive, Eugene,” Bill said, “just because Mom . . .”

“Just because Mom thinks I'm what?” I asked when Bill paused.

“Nothing,” Bill answered, more softly. “Look, I was just kidding around, okay? This weekend the beer's on me.”

We were on the four-lane before either of us spoke again.

“Tanya's still working at Hardee's,” I said. “She's the manager.”

“We need to stop by there then,” Bill said. “I'm wondering if Ligeia's just pretending to be from Florida.”

“What are you going to say to Tanya?”

“I'll ask about a couple of classmates,” Bill answered, “then work around to saying I saw someone in her yard I didn't recognize.”

I waited in the truck while Bill went inside. When he came back out, the look on his face appeared caught between grin and grimace.

“What did she tell you?” I asked when he got in.

“A lot,” Bill said, “a whole lot.”

AT SIX O'CLOCK
I watch the news on the Asheville station. Robbie Loudermilk, the county sheriff, asks anyone with information about Jane Mosely to contact his department. It had taken a week to identify her, he tells the reporter, and then only because dental records matched up with a 1969 missing person's report. No clothing or jewelry was among the remains, only shreds of a blue tarp. Loudermilk usually ambles about in an aw-shucks, Andy Griffith sort of way, but as I know very well, that can change into the tight-lipped anger I see now. He and Bill had played baseball together, and been friends before my accident. There is no mention of leads or when Ligeia was last seen alive.

Another memory comes, not of the final time I saw Ligeia but a week before she disappeared, something mundane yet vivid. The mystery of memory. There's surely some scientific explanation for why the brain decides
Don't let go of this
. I've read novels and cannot recall a single character's name and yet I remember a red bicycle glanced once in a hardware-store window, a mole on a stranger's chin, a kitchen match lying beside a hearth. These remain, as does Ligeia reaching into her locker, a book crooked in her arm sliding free.

Of course, who can forget that first love, or first sex,
or first drink—especially if they all occur together. I also remember how, after Ligeia had left our lives, I'd worried for months that she might reappear and tell Bill what I'd never confessed to him. But after a while nostalgia supplanted guilt and our summer at Panther Creek became more a tender coming-of-age story, a summer of love complete with bucolic setting.

Before today, when had I last thought of her? I have to think for a minute, then recall it was a month ago during a TV segment about South Beach. A woman with long red hair mixed a drink behind a posh bar. Younger than Ligeia would be, but it had brought her to mind. I'd wondered if she'd ended up like me or settled into a good life, perhaps with a husband and children. When the television show switched to a crowded boulevard, I'd studied the passersby for a glimpse of her, unlikely as it was.

Despite the whiskey, cold spreads from my chest to my fingertips, because now I never need imagine or search for her again. Any surmise was answered when a bank on Panther Creek crumbled after a hard rain, exposing blue tarp and bone amid the mud. I finish my last drink and walk upstairs to the bathroom I'd once shared with Bill. My bathroom now, my house, because
after the divorce and my being fired from the community college, I'd come to live here with my mother, who'd been diagnosed with leukemia.
It's your house now, Eugene. I've already got the deed transferred to your name,
Bill had told me after our mother's funeral.
You deserve it for looking after her these last two years.

But that was not true. Bill and Leslie had done as much, visiting every weekend, setting up appointments and paying for the various doctors, the medicine, everything else that ensured our mother's last days were as comfortable as possible. Bill's tenderness toward our mother, how he sat with her for hours, how he prayed with her, reaffirmed how much he'd changed because of Leslie. He was an exemplary husband and father, and a wonderful uncle to Sarah, never forgetting a birthday, helping her find summer jobs. He'd paid for her braces and later her college when Sarah refused the money I'd offered. As my daughter had told me numerous times, Bill was more of a father to her than I had been.

My mother agreed that Leslie's effect on Bill had been all for the good, but she also believed Bill became a better person because our grandfather's influence on him ended with Bill and Leslie's engagement. Despite what our mother and father had done, or perhaps
because of it, one of our grandfather's stipulations was that my brother and I couldn't marry until our schooling was complete. Grandfather had been true to his word. When Bill entered Bowman Gray, he'd paid his own way with student loans and what Leslie made as a lab technician. As far as I know, Bill and Grandfather never spoke after he'd told the old man, face-to-face in his office, of the engagement. Grandfather hadn't attended the wedding and Bill had not attended our grandfather's funeral.
The only reason I'd have gone would have been to throw dirt on the son of a bitch,
Bill had told me, the bitterest comment I've ever heard him make.

Their estrangement was to my benefit. When Grandfather's will was read, my mother received the house she lived in and also half his savings. The rest, including the money from the sale of his office, house, and land, went to me. Bill's sole bequest was the Rembrandt print now hanging on his office wall. I'd offered to give Bill half but he refused. So I was left with enough money to buy all the wine and whiskey I'd ever desire.

T
he mystery of your mermaid has been solved,” Bill said as we pulled out of the Hardee's parking lot. “She is from Daytona Beach but staying with the Moselys for the summer. She's seventeen years old and Mr. Mosely's niece. According to Tanya, Ligeia's been giving her parents all sorts of grief. She ran off to a commune last summer and it took them a month to find her. Tanya says the parents want to get Ligeia away from ‘bad influences.' They don't even allow her to be in town except for church.”

Then it was Saturday and we'd finished waxing and buffing our grandfather's office. As we cooled off next to the air conditioner, Bill leaned forward, head down,
nodding slightly as he deliberated. I thought how rare it was for him to be indecisive.

“Maybe we shouldn't go out there tomorrow,” he said, more to himself than to me.

“I don't think she's a bad person,” I said.

“I didn't say she was, Eugene, but what Tanya said . . .”

“You think we should be scared to be around her?”

“I'm not saying that,” Bill answered.

“I'm not scared of her,” I said. “Besides, I checked in the closet Wednesday when you were with Grandfather,” I added. “There are plenty of Valium and Quaalude samples.”

“You shouldn't have done that,” Bill said tersely.

But you can, I almost answered. Bill leaned forward again, and then nodded as he took a deep breath.

“Okay,” he said, and left me in the front room to watch for Nebo.

When he returned, his open palm revealed a packet containing two white pills.

“Prescription filled,” he said. “But we're not going to be stupid, little brother. This prescription has no refills.”

The next day we loaded the fishing gear but didn't drive straight to the stream. Bill stopped at the conve
nience store outside town and came out with a brown paper bag, in it a six-pack of Michelob and a bottle of Strawberry Hill.

“Try not to let those beers shake much,” he said, handing me the sack. “Of course with all that Aqua Velva you splashed on your face, my Aqua Velva, I might add, you could probably get drunk just licking around your lips. Anyway, it's aftershave, not cologne, Eugene. If you want to smell good for a girl, use British Sterling or Jade East.”

A car pulled up beside us and Bill motioned for me to put the bag on the floorboard. Renee Brock, whose father owned the jewelry store, got out of the car and went inside.

“Let's get out of here,” Bill said, backing up the truck. We turned onto the four-lane and headed toward Panther Creek.

Something could happen today that I will never forget
, I told myself.
Or it won't happen
. I was thinking that too, because I could simply walk upstream and fish, leaving Bill at the pool. My heart quickened as we turned onto the gravel road and then the logging trail. We parked and walked through the mountain laurel to the stream.

“Looks like we got here first,” Bill said as lifted the wine and six-pack from the grocery bag. “Put them in the stream, but not where they'll wash away.”

I set the cans and bottle in the water. A trout leaped in the pool's center and a ring rippled outward, giving me a bull's-eye for a cast. When I turned to get a rod and reel, Bill's face was perplexed.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Like they say, if it feels good, do it, right? And with Leslie way up in Virginia. I know we've been dating awhile but it's not like we're engaged.” Bill paused. “Anyway, Ligeia probably won't show up. Even if she does, she might decide you're more her type. Isn't that what hippies are into, feelings and expressing yourself? According to Mom, that's you, not me, right?”

When I didn't respond, Bill took a thin foil packet from his front pocket and handed it to me.

“So here,” Bill said. “You know what it is, don't you?”

“Of course.”

“You know how to put one on?”

“Sure,” I said, though not so sure.

“Make certain you
do
put it on, little brother. Even if hippies believe in free love, that doesn't mean they can't get pregnant. They can get other things as well.”

“I know that. I'm not a kid anymore, in case you haven't noticed,” I said, taking the condom. “What about you?”

Bill patted the front pocket of his jeans. I put mine in my pocket too as he walked over to the stream and pulled two beers free from the plastic ring, tossing one to me.

“Since, as you say, you're not a kid anymore.”

I held the can but made no move to pull the metal tab.

“That's all right,” I said, holding the beer out to him.

“I figured you were lying about not ever drinking,” my brother said, “but damn, not even once?”

“No.”

“Go ahead and pull the tab,” Bill said. “It's not a hand grenade.”

The tone in his voice, part instructive, part exasperation, was one I'd heard too often.
When a curveball's thrown, don't rock back on your heels,
he'd chided me when I tried out for Little League
.
But I had always rocked back.
That's okay,
he'd told me after I failed to make the team.
It's just not who you are.
He'd said it with a pat on the back, maybe even meaning well, but it rankled then and did so now. On such a hot summer day, the can's
chilled dampness felt good on my palm and fingers. Surely its cold contents would feel even better sliding down my throat.

I pulled the tab, a soft sucking sound as the tin separated. Foam rose and covered the top. I wiped it off and raised the can and swallowed. It didn't taste good, but I knew instantly I could get used to that bitterness. That I
would
get used to it. I looked through the trees toward the road and felt a spasm of panic. Here I was, underage and drinking, out in the open, and on a Sunday, and with a condom in my pocket. I drank quickly, hoping to blot out the sense of being observed from the heavens and by a grandfather who seemed as omnipresent as God. I tossed my empty on the bank, belched loudly, then went to the creek and pulled free another can. As I opened it and took a long swallow, I didn't experience what I'd read later in
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof,
the “click” Brick spoke of. No, what I felt on this Sunday afternoon was a gliding sensation, then a soft smooth landing where the world greeted me with a warm glowing smile.

“Damn, little brother,” Bill said, still holding his first beer. “It's not a contest.”

“I don't think she's coming,” I said a few minutes later.

“Doesn't appear so,” Bill agreed.

But when we looked downstream, Ligeia was coming down the opposite bank. She paused on the rock slab and took off her flip-flops and a T-shirt with
JEFFERSON
AIRPLANE
printed on the front. She swam across and walked toward us, the water streaming off her. The alcohol allowed me to settle my eyes fully on her. She was prettier than she'd seemed before and everything about her was more vivid—the varied hues of her love beads, the green bathing suit, the fingernails trimmed to narrow
V
's. Most of all the depths of her blue eyes. I took another swallow of my third beer while Bill nursed his second.

“So where's the happening?” Ligeia asked.

“Right here,” Bill answered, handing her the Valium.

“Just two?”

“And this,” Bill said, lifting the wine bottle from the stream. He screwed off the cap. “Strawberry Hill, as ordered.”

“Have you got a glass or cup?” she asked.

“We forgot to pack wineglasses,” Bill said. “From
what your cousin Tanya says, it wouldn't bother you any more than it bothers us.”

Her eyes hardened.

“So the word's out that Preacher Mosely is trying to save his wayward niece,” she said. “What did Tanya say about me?”

“Not much,” Bill said. “That you live in Daytona Beach but your parents thought you needed to be away from some bad influences down there. And that you're seventeen; she told me that too.”

For a few moments, Ligeia didn't speak. Then the right side of her cheek flexed into a wry smile.

“Looks like the bad influences part hasn't worked out,” she said, taking the bottle. “Haven't you at least got a paper cup?”

“I've got a used one,” Bill answered. “I can wash it out in the creek for you.”

“Do that,” she said.

Bill disappeared into the mountain laurel.

“So you'll be what, a junior this year?” she asked, and I nodded.

“Do you know Bennie?”

“Yes,” I said, talking slow to keep my words from slurring. “We're in the same glade.”

“Same
glade,
like in the Everglades,
”
Ligeia said, and grinned. “It sounds like you've got a head start on me.”

“I guess so,” I said, grinning too. “You'll be a senior?”

“Not for long. As soon as I turn eighteen I'm out of Daytona and headed to Miami.”

“Tanya said you were in a hippie commune. Is that true?”

“I was there a month,” Ligeia answered, “then the cops came and took me back to Daytona.”

“Is the commune near Miami?”

“It's twenty miles from there.”

“But you'll be here until you turn eighteen?”

“God, I hope not,” Ligeia said. “Do you know them, my aunt and uncle?”

“Yes,” I answered. “I've spent the night at Bennie's a few times.”

“Then you know they'd wig out if they knew what I'm doing right now. For them, everything from smoking cigarettes to saying ‘damn' is a sin. And the only thing they play on their radio is Jesus music. They even get bent if I don't wear a bra.”

“They're strict, I guess, but they always seemed nice.”

“I guess they're nice enough, Bennie too,” Ligeia said. “A hell of a lot nicer than my mom and old man,
but, damn, every five minutes they're praying or reading the Bible. It's Jesus this or Jesus that morning to night. It is so nowhere. Even Jesus freaks need to mellow out once in a while. And their idea of fun is going to the Dairy Queen. There and church are the only places they've taken me since I got up here. I started coming down here just to get away from it for a while.”

Bill came back. He went to the creek and washed out the cup, filled it with wine, and handed it to her.

“You guys aren't into these?” she asked, showing the pills before she swallowed them.

Bill shook his head.

“How about pot?”

“We like a straight beer buzz,” Bill said. “Right, Eugene?”

“Damn straight,” I said and grinned.

I finished the beer with a long swallow and leaned to set the can down. As I did I lost my balance and fell to the ground. Bill helped me to my feet.

“I think you've drunk enough, little brother,” he said, and turned to Ligeia. “His first time.”

“No shit,” Ligeia said.

“She really was in a commune,” I told Bill, and when he didn't say anything I asked her what it was like.

“Plenty of drugs and music, nobody telling you what to do, that was the best part. If it feels good, you just do it. And you shared everything, and I mean everything. There was this abandoned farmhouse we all crashed in, and the ocean was only half a mile away so you could go there any time. One of the guys had lived in San Francisco and he'd rigged this far-out speaker system in the trees. That was so cool, because it was like the trees were making the music, and all day and all night. Quicksilver, the Dead, Jefferson Airplane.”

I nodded at the shirt on the rock slab.

“That's a music group?”

“You haven't heard of them?”

I shook my head.

“How about the Grateful Dead, or Quicksilver, or Moby Grape?”

“No,” I said.

“Jesus Christ,” Ligeia said. “This place is like going back in time. All I've heard on the radio is hillbilly music and preachers.”

“There are a couple of top-forty stations,” I said.

“They won't be playing these groups, though,” she said. “Maybe at night something hip might come on. Of
course, Uncle Hiram and Aunt Cazzie won't be listening to it.”

A rod tip quivered and I reeled in a foot-long rainbow trout. After a couple of ham-fisted attempts, I pinned it to the sand, the fish throbbing against my palm. I freed the hook, gilled the trout onto the stringer, and placed it in the shallows.

“Do you eat them?” Ligeia asked after a swallow of wine.

“Our grandfather does,” Bill said. “Our mother cooks them for him.”

“The grandfather who's the doctor?”

“Yes.”

I rebaited the hook and cast but I missed the water and snagged a rhododendron limb on the far bank.

“Oops,” I said, and laughed.

I jerked the hook free and recast, missing where I aimed but at least hitting water. For a few minutes I watched the rods as Ligeia and Bill stood behind me. Then Ligeia gave a soft
umm
.

“Damn, I've missed having a buzz,” she said. “Uncle Hiram told me he drank alcohol only once. He said he liked being loaded so much he never drank again. I thought that was the point, to feel good.”

“Hell yeah, to feel good,” I echoed.

“So how are you feeling?” Ligeia asked my brother.

“Very good,” Bill answered, and set his can by the tackle box.

“Me too,” she said, her voice as dreamy as her eyes, “though being a mermaid I'd feel even groovier in the water. How about you? Feel like getting wet with me, Bill?”

For a moment my brother didn't say anything.

“Well,” he said, “it might scare the fish away.”

Ligeia smiled.

“I don't mean here,” she said, picking up the wine bottle, “downstream.”

“Yeah,” Bill said, blushing slightly. “I guess that's better. If we swim there, we won't scare the fish.”