Authors: Vicki Lane
Under the Skin (7 page)
Skimming down the page, I stopped at this paragraph.
The
peculiar thing
is that Sam spends most of this letter telling the Old Gentleman about some strange “detached duty” he and this other man had been sent on. He asks the OG if he has obtained any information on “the matter I mentioned in my last letter” and then goes on to say that he’s not sure if he can
trust
the other man whom he calls
the Hawk
…”
That was it—the thing that was unsettling me. The strange “detached duty” Sam and this other man had been sent on, the other man Sam said he wasn’t sure he could trust—the man he called the Hawk.
It was years after Sam’s death when I had learned the truth about his time in the Navy during the Vietnam era—had learned that rather than serving aboard a supply ship, as he had told me, Sam had been “in country” and witness to a sickening atrocity.
And Phillip had been with him. Phillip
Hawk
ins.
And it was Phillip who’d given me the full story—though Sam’s nightmares and the eventual diagnosis of post-traumatic stress disorder had made it obvious that there was more to his time in the Navy than he was willing to tell. I had always hated the fact that he wasn’t open with me—
Yes? And are you being open with Phillip?
No. I absolutely was not. The longer I lay in the cooling water, watching the scented foam disintegrate, the more warning bells went off. Phillip had come into my life for reasons I wasn’t made aware of till several years had gone by. He had not been what he seemed—
That all got straightened out, remember?
Maybe. But I had learned, to my sorrow, that though Vietnam was in the past, the evil brought to life by tragic events from that time was still alive, still dangerous. And though Phillip had seemed to be on the side of the angels,
who could say if the scenes that played out two years ago were the final act?
Get
off
it, Elizabeth! You’re like a bloody rodent on an exercise wheel
.
I grabbed the washcloth and wiped at my already clean face, trying to put these increasingly repetitive thoughts aside.
The Hawk … Mackenzie calls Phillip “Hawk.” It’s a logical nickname.
Did Sam ever call Phillip anything but Hawkins? They got together a few times after Vietnam—that time Sam met his Navy buddies in DC to see the Vietnam memorial … I’m pretty sure Sam always referred to him as Phillip—maybe Phil—or just Hawkins. And if he didn’t trust him, why did he go on keeping in touch with him?
This is bullshit, Elizabeth. You
know
this man
.
I could hear him moving about the bedroom, the jingle of coins as he slid out of his slacks, the creak of the springs as he lay down, and the click of the reading light. He would be reading that Harlan Coben paperback, no doubt.
The water was cold now. And I’d decided. There would be no more secrecy, no more wondering. I would ask if he’d seen the red mailer, ask why he didn’t give me the airmail letter, ask if he’d ever been called the Hawk …
And we’d laugh at Aunt Dodie’s overwrought fears and I’d put on my beautiful gift from Gloria, sliding it over my freshly bathed body, and wait for him to notice how it turned my eyes to violet-blue …
I pulled the plug and hurriedly stepped out of the tub. As I toweled myself dry, I remembered that I hadn’t brought the kimono into the bathroom with me. There was just my usual oversized T-shirt—the magical garment was in its tissue-lined box, on a shelf in my closet.
Never mind—just go in there and show him this silly letter
.
When I emerged from the bathroom, my teeth brushed, my hair loosed from its braid, my body soft and fragrant with lavender-scented powder, there he was, sound asleep, a book open on his chest and his reading glasses on his nose. He didn’t wake as I removed the book and the glasses, but when I crawled in beside him, he reached out a hand to give me a perfunctory pat on the leg, then, muttering something about an early start, rolled on his side and returned to the deep breathing of heavy sleep.
When I awoke he was gone.
I sat up and glared at the sun which was already well up—I’d lain awake for quite a while last night in spite of repeatedly reminding myself that there was nothing to worry about, that in the morning we’d straighten things out. And so I’d overslept.
Maybe he was in the kitchen fixing some breakfast … maybe there’d be a moment to talk before Gloria appeared in
her
lovely robe, makeup subtle but perfect, blond hair just
slightly
tousled … but no. There on the chest by the bed, where I’d put his book and glasses last night, was a note:
Mac needed me early and we may be out of touch all day. I’ll try to call if I won’t be home at the usual time. Love you—P
.
I frowned.
Out of touch
usually meant that some big bust was under way: a patch of marijuana hidden back on national forest land, a fence with a hoard of stolen chain saws, a meth lab, or even a moonshine still. This last was rare but a few hard-core fellows held to the old ways and turned out their white liquor in spite of the fact that you could buy cheaper stuff at any ABC store. What had begun simply, as a “value added” way of making a living from the corn that was one of the
few crops easily grown in these mountains, was now almost a niche market. “Artisanal” moonshine, packaged quaintly in Mason jars half filled with peaches, blueberries, or some other fruit, was the drink of choice for a certain set.
I crumpled the note in my hand. Well, hell. But maybe he’d get home before Gloria—she had already informed me that she was going back into Asheville for a visit to a spa. “I knew I’d be worn out from a day of shopping, so I went on and scheduled a half-day treatment. Sometimes, I just need some ‘me time,’ you know, Lizzy?”
Good
, I thought.
Let her have her precious “me time.” As if there’s ever any other kind for Glory. It’ll give me a chance to go see Miss Birdie
.
“Why, look who’s coming! What’s a-gonna happen?”
It was Miss Birdie’s standard greeting whenever more than a week or two passed without my stopping in. It
had
been longer than usual—the gardens were demanding at this time of year … and then I had to get ready for Gloria. I’d been going to stop several times but on one occasion Birdie’s truck had been gone and another day I’d seen Dorothy’s car and a strange vehicle there and had decided to postpone my visit. It always seems to me that with the quiet life she leads, Birdie’d probably rather not have all her visitors at once.
“Hey, Miss Birdie!” Grinning at my little neighbor as I climbed the steps to the cabin’s porch, I gave my standard response. “You remember who I am?”
“Come on in and git you a chair, Lizzie Beth,” she directed, her wrinkled face beaming as she held the screen door wide. “Wherever have you been all this time?”
Visiting Miss Birdie is always a comfort, from the predictability of her greeting to the unchanging décor of her living room—the recliner facing the television set, the Bible and the telephone on a table beside the recliner, the
feed store calendar and the fly swatter sharing a nail on the wall by the kitchen door, and the shelves filled with the little wooden animals her son Cletus had carved. It was in the wake of Cletus’s untimely death that I had really gotten to know Birdie and to appreciate her strength and wisdom. I only hope that when I’m her age—somewhere up in the eighties—that I can be as happy in my skin as she is in hers.
“Ben and that pretty Amandy stopped in day before yesterday.” Birdie took her place on the recliner as I dropped onto the plastic-covered sofa. “He said you and Phillip was planning a wedding next month and I said I knowed that sooner or later you was going to come around and I was glad to hear it.”
Par for the course. I don’t think I’ve ever managed to be the first to tell Miss Birdie any news. She seems to attract it like a magnet. Usually it’s her friend Bernice who keeps her informed about local goings-on—how many times has Birdie greeted me with the details of some late-breaking event, prefaced by “Bernice’s boy heard it on the scanner”?
“Well, that Ben! He beat me to it.” I was in defensive mode now, already a little guilty at not having stopped by earlier. “I was going to tell you as soon as we decided on a date but my sister—”
Birdie studied at me over the top of her glasses. “Ben
told
me his mommy was making a long visit. I seen a shiny little black and yellow car going down the road yesterday and again this morning. Reckon that must have been her.”
I explained that Gloria was a city girl and not used to shopping only once a week or less. “She’s still just getting settled but I’ll bring her over soon so she can meet you,” I promised, wondering what these two would make of one another.
“Now I’d like that just fine, Lizzie Beth.” Birdie’s
bright blue eyes twinkled at me then turned to peer out the window. “Law, there goes that Roberts boy again; he’s up and down this road every whipstitch.” She watched the truck out of sight then turned back to me. “Tell me about your sister, Lizzie Beth. Seems like I remember you saying she lives in Florida. You uns haven’t seen much of one another over the years, now have you?”
“No … it’s hard for me to get away, and Gloria …”
Gloria hates it here. She wouldn’t have come if it weren’t for this supposed death threat
. “… Gloria stays pretty busy too.”
“Ay law, that’s a cruel shame.” The sharp blue eyes grew misty. “I had me four sisters but they every one of them married and went off while I was still just a little thing—me being the least un. The only one I remember at all is Fairlight—and they’s ever one of ’em dead and buried long since. No, talking of sisters, I’d say Belvy—you remember the one they call Aunt Belvy, her at the Holiness Church over to Tennessee?”
Oh, yes, I remembered Belvy—a formidable presence who spoke in tongues and prophesied when the Spirit took her. Little chance I’d forget Belvy.
I nodded and started to answer but Birdie wasn’t paying any attention to me. She was staring at the gray screen of the silent television, just as if she were watching one of her stories unfold.
“Belvy was my playmate growing up and as close a thing to a sister as there is. And though we’ve gone our different ways this many a year and don’t hardly see one another but once in a great long while, I always knew that in time of need …”
Her voice trailed off and she shook herself as if waking. “I do go on, don’t I? But I’m proud that you and your sister will have some time together now. You know, Lizzie Beth, a sister’s a comfort and a treasure in good
times … and she’ll always look out for you when times is bad.”
It was early afternoon and I was weeding the nasturtium beds down at the lower place when I heard the scrape of metal on rock. Looking up I saw Gloria’s Mini Cooper bucketing up the dirt and gravel driveway—far too fast for the low-slung car to negotiate the ruts and water breaks.
With a final
clang
as it wheeled into the parking spot beside the corncrib, the little car stopped, the door swung open, and my sister
—my comfort and treasure—
leaped out.
“Lizzy!” she shrieked and began to run toward me, her high heels teetering on the uneven terrain. “Lizzy! He was there!”
Amarantha
Cripple Tree Holler~May 1887
“Come three angels from the North,
Take both fire and frost.”
The boy stood before the gaunt woman, his bared arm outstretched, his hand held in hers. The burn was on the inner arm, an angry red that reached from wrist to elbow with watery blisters covering much of its surface. As she spoke the words a second time, Amarantha waved her free hand over the burn, fanning the heat away from the trembling boy
.
“Come three angels from the North,
Take both fire and frost.”
The boy shut his eyes as Amarantha bent to blow on the burned area but his companion—a younger brother, to judge by their identical bowl-cut, carrot-colored hair and shirts cut from the same blue-checked homespun—leaned in closer to watch
.
“Zeb! Them blisters, they’s—” he began in great excitement, only to be silenced by a sharp glare from the burn doctor. Once again she repeated the charm
.
“Come three angels from the North,
Take both fire and frost.”
And again she waved her hand and bent to blow on the reddened forearm. Finally, she straightened. “Well, I believe we’ve drawed the fire out. Now you uns wait here whilst I go to the house and get some balm to dress it.”
The two young boys nodded and stood transfixed, their eyes following the witchy-woman as she climbed the log steps to her front porch. When she had disappeared into the dark interior, the younger whispered, “Zeb! Them blisters just dried plumb up! I was watching while she spoke the words. I seen it!”
Zeb was examining his forearm with openmouthed awe. Only a faint reddening remained of what had been an angry and painful burn
.
“Well, I be … and hit don’t hurt no more, not one little bit.” He tapped a cautious finger up and down the length of his forearm, repeating the words. “… not one little bit.”
“Reckon she really is a witch, like old man Henderson done said.” The younger boy’s eyes surveyed the bare-swept dirt of the yard where a few yellow hens scratched, the looming boxwoods near the branch, the iron wash pot upside down on three big fire-blackened rocks. “Her place don’t look noways different to most folkses’ places. Seems as how a witch’d ought to—”
“Hsst!” A sharp jab from his brother’s elbow and the younger boy’s mouth snapped shut as Amarantha reappeared at the door. A basket on her arm, she descended the steps with measured tread and solemn face, having found that her charms always worked best if the patient was a little afraid of her
.
Setting the basket on the ground, she lifted out a small dark brown crock filled with yellow ointment. A
smooth wooden handle protruded from the waxy-looking substance
.
“Hold out your arm again, boy,” she directed. “This balm’ll seal the healing in.”
Zeb did as he was told, wincing slightly at the first cold touch of the ointment but then relaxing as the small paddle slid gently up and down, spreading the greasy stuff over the wound
.
“Now,” said Amarantha, returning the crock to the basket and taking out a little cloth bag, “let’s us see about your brother.”
She fixed the younger boy with a stern gaze. “You want to get rid of them ugly warts on your hand, young un?”
Instantly the little brother whipped his right hand behind his back, ready to deny its very existence, but Zeb answered for him
.
“Thanky, ma’am, we’d be obliged. Mommy purely hates the look of them things on Clete’s hand. I told him not to go fooling with them old toads but—”
“How many warts are there, young un?” Amarantha’s clear blue eyes held young Clete with an uncompromising stare till he produced a grubby hand for her inspection
.
“Reckon they’s five … ma’am.” The boy stared at the ground to avoid the icy gaze. “But they ain’t—”
“They ain’t gone trouble you much longer.” Amarantha was already reaching into the cloth poke and counting out five kernels of corn. “Hold these in t’other hand and don’t drop them. Now I want you to close your eyes tight and count out loud. I want you to count to five, five times, you hear?”
Clete, both hands extended, began to count in a shaky voice. Zeb watched wide-eyed as Amarantha reached down and withdrew a silver needle from the hem of her
apron. In a lightning blur, her hand darted out and pricked the largest of the warts
.
“… four, five. One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five.” The count was finished and the boy appeared not to have noticed the needle’s sting. On the largest wart, a drop of bright blood was forming
.
“All right, young un, you done good. Open your eyes and pour the corn over to your other hand and don’t you dare to drop it. You see there’s a bitty of wart blood—you want to get it on the corn … Good. Now say after me, ‘You grow and you go.’ ”
“You grow and you go,” Clete quavered, his hand trembling but still outstretched
.
“That’s a good boy. You’re almost done—now cast the corn to the ground.”
Hardly had the red-stained kernels hit the dirt than the hens were at the boy’s feet, gobbling down the corn
.
“You grow and you go,” Amarantha repeated, watching with satisfaction as the last piece of grain disappeared. “Now you boys get on home—leave that balm on till this time tomorrow, Zeb. And you, Clete, wash your hand in branch water for the next five nights and them warts’ll fall off afore the week is out.”
She watched them go, tumbling over each other in their eagerness to be well away from the witchy-woman. But just before they reached the trees that ringed the cabin site, the older boy slowed and turned. “We thank you, ma’am!” he called, and the younger echoed him
.
“Thanky, thanky …” The words still hung in the air as the two plunged into the woods and vanished from sight
.
Amarantha’s stern expression softened. “Fine young uns … My, how I wish …” She left the sentence unfinished. With a sigh, she climbed the steps to return the contents of the basket to her cabin. With only one day in
the week free from her work at the hotel, there wasn’t time to stand about considering the what-ifs
.
She set the crock on a shelf amongst others then tied on a faded blue poke bonnet. “I got to get on down the mountain after them merkles,” she muttered. “That cook said he’d pay high for as many as I could bring him. What did he call them—mo-rels. Funny how many names them things has. I’ve known some to call them honeycomb musharoons and others name them wood fish. Hit don’t matter what he calls them, long as he pays. And they’s bound to be a mess of them in the old orchard round the Gahagan place.”
“What a peculiar name! Why Cripple Tree, do you suppose?”
The woman’s voice was raised to be heard above the steady
clip-clop
of hooves. Amarantha could see the riders clear: a dark-haired young woman and a portly older man. Struggling to prevent his gelding, one of the Mountain Park’s more obstinate hacks, from pausing to browse every few seconds, the man answered in little bursts of polite words to the woman, interspersed with loud invective directed at the wayward horse
.
“Who can tell about these outlandish names? … Come up, sir! … The natives appear to delight in the drollest and quaintest designations for their remote creeks and coves … Leave it, you vile creature, fit only for glue … Forgive me, I was going to mention Bone Camp, Spillcorn, Shake Rag, and Shut In—but a few that I’ve noted.”
The man yanked at the reins and with repeated kicks urged his nag alongside his companion’s mount
.
“Miss DeVine … or may I say Miss Dorothea …?”
The young woman pulled her horse to a halt and turned to look at the petitioner. She made an elegant picture atop the bright bay mare, deep green twill riding
habit draped over her mount’s shining russet flank, and her slender torso, encased in a severe high-buttoned basque, rising straight and elegant. Behind the half-veil of her modish little hat, long eyelashes fluttered like captive birds
.
“Mr. Peavey … our acquaintance is hardly an old one, only a week and a day, I believe. But at a genteel resort such as this, where one meets one’s friends daily, surely a little … familiarity is allowable …”
Mr. Peavey, his ruddy face wreathed in smiles, pressed his horse closer. “My dear Miss Dorothea, how wisely you speak—” He reached for Dorothea’s gloved hand
.
Eluding his grasp with a lift of her reins that put the bay mare to a walk, Dorothea giggled, a liquid burble of merriment. “Mr. Peavey, we are approaching a fork in the trail. Pray, which way do we go? To the left or to the right?”
Kicking the gelding into a marginally more rapid walk, Mr. Peavey squinted ahead. “Let me think … I was here last week with a local guide … Oh, yes, now I remember, we take the right and downward fork—it joins another trail a little farther on and that trail leads back to the stables.”
The truth of this statement was verified as both horses strained toward the right-hand fork. Dorothea reined in her mare and looked longingly up the other trail
.
“But I wonder what lies that way? Perhaps we should explore—”
“My dear Miss Dorothea—the guide warned us against taking that road. He was quite adamant—claimed that a witch—or as he put it, a witchy-woman—lives up there.”
Dorothea’s eyes were sparkling with lively delight as she tugged at the reins to turn her mare. “Then we certainly must explore. A witch—how delicious!”
Peavey pulled his mount to a stop, blocking the way
.
“But, Miss Dorothea, have you forgotten? I am engaged to support my friend Harris when your sister attempts to summon the spirit of his late wife. He is relying upon me.”
Dorothea’s mouth fell open and she clapped a gloved hand to it. “How could I have forgotten! Of course we must return at once. Your poor friend—he’s quite low in his spirits, I believe you said?”
As the two horses moved down the trail, the man’s earnest tones rose above the brisk tattoo of the horses’ hooves
.
“… If only your sister can fulfill poor Harris’s longing to communicate with his wife just one last time. The carriage accident that took her from him was cruel enough. But he lives daily with the memory of his parting words to her—hasty words said in the morning; words that would undoubtedly have been kissed away in the evening. He still carries with him the diamond bracelet he had purchased earlier on that fateful day, hoping to win her forgiveness …”
As the sounds drew away, Amarantha shook her head. “A man’s a fool for a pretty face like hers,” she murmured. “By the time they’re back to the hotel, she’ll have turned him inside out and she’ll know ever last thing he knows about poor old Mr. Harris. I see how them two huzzies work it. But it ain’t right.”
BURN DOCTORS
From FOLK MEDICINE IN SOUTHERN APPALACHIA by Anthony Cavender. Copyright © 2003 by the
University of North Carolina Press. Used by permission of the publisher
.
The testimonial below was obtained in 1989 from a fifty-five-year-old male, a resident of eastern Tennessee. The incident described, however, occurred in the 1970s in West Virginia.
We had people who could talk the fire out of you. I don’t know how they done it but they did. I seen them do it. Stood there and watched them. I couldn’t believe it, but, anyway, grease all over the woman’s hand. I mean, it just burnt her whole arm and the guy sits there and took a hold of her hand and just talked and the damn thing [the burn] just went away. I mean, the blisters just went away and everything … Yes, I sat there and watched him, J.B., do it. L.J. jerked a pan of grease back and it went all over her arm. Her hand is burned up! There’s blisters all over it and he sits there and talks and the blisters are going away. I said, “What are you doing?” And he’s holding her hand and, I swear, the s.o.b. is sitting there holding her hand, and he’s talking, you know, and the burn is going away. L.J. said, “I still don’t believe it because I ain’t got no scars or nothing.” Anyway, you can go to Talledega Alabama Central Prison and see him and talk to him about it
.
It is likely that the burn doctor in this case used a charm well known in the region, and in English folk medicine as well, to “talk the fire out,” a version of which is the following: “There came an angel from the east bringing fire and frost. In frost, out fire. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.” Another version collected in 1939 in western North Carolina substitutes “salt” for “frost”: “God sent three angels coming from the east and west. One brought fire, another salt. Go out fire, go in salt. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”