In Search of Eden, page 28
“They’re better for grass stains,” Ruth pointed out.
Grady showed up at some point and was introduced to Joseph. Grady seemed intimidated, but Miranda could understand that. Joseph could be an intimidating figure.
“Unbend a little,” Ruth chided her son. “He’s shy.”
Joseph gave her a longsuffering look.
Miranda watched. She felt lucky just to be here, but if she spoke out of turn, they might suddenly look at her and realize they had made a mistake to invite her.
“Eden,” Ruth said. “Do you want to call your mom now?”
“No. I’ll call her later. When we get home.” The little face closed.
Ruth nodded. “Did you bring some extra clothes or swim trunks, Grady?” Ruth asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
“I’m sorry your father couldn’t come.”
“Yes, ma’am. He had to work.”
Miranda wondered what had happened to Grady’s mother and realized again that she was not alone in her sorrow or in the brokenness of her family.
Finally the food was packed into Ruth’s car, and baseball equipment, towels, swimsuits, and Flick were loaded in the back of Joseph’s truck. Miranda rode with Ruth. Joseph took the children. Ruth drove expertly through town and down winding roads, then turned onto the little dirt road, now familiar to Miranda. Ruth’s expression grew sentimental as she pulled the car to a stop in the graveled lot at the top of the hill. Joseph and the children pulled in behind them. Grady and Eden erupted out of the truck and went running down to the lake with Flick leading the way, a blur of black and white. Joseph unloaded the truck, but Ruth just sat still and looked out at the cabins and lake.
Miranda waited quietly. She tried to imagine what it would feel like to have a place where you felt you belonged and then to lose it. After a moment Ruth turned her face to Miranda’s and gave her a smile. “We’d better get out. The hordes will be here soon, and they’ll be hungry.”
Pastor Hector arrived. Ruth’s friend Vi and her husband, Henry, the sheriff, arrived and another friend of theirs named Carol Jean. Miranda liked the two women immediately. Father Leonard, the Catholic priest, arrived with five youngsters—foster children from the group home he ran, Ruth explained, and Miranda’s pulse began racing. A group home for foster children. Why, any one of them could be her child. She tried to assimilate the fact that this could be the answer to her quest. That she had just come here and her child had been delivered to her. On Mother’s Day. But a foster home?
She wondered if her mother could have been so cold. To not even try to place her child with an adoptive family but send him or her off to a group home. Would she have done that? Could she have been so cruel? Or perhaps the adoption had fallen through, unbeknownst to her mother?
She became aware that Ruth and Vi and Carol Jean were staring at her.
“How long has the group home been here?” she asked, her voice unsteady.
The three women frowned and tried to think. “Oh, it’s been twenty or thirty years, I think,” Ruth answered. “New crops of children all the time, of course.”
“New crops?”
“Yes,” Carol Jean answered. “Some get placed for adoption. Some grow up and leave. Some move to other facilities when they hit teen years.”
“Do they go to the public school?”
“I believe they take them over to St. Anne’s School in Bristol.” Ruth gave Miranda a curious look. Vi did, as well.
Miranda barely noticed. Her mind was frozen, and she was almost mute. She stared at the children and tried to make out their faces. What if her child had somehow ended up there?
“Excuse me for a moment,” she said to the women and walked down to the water to get a closer look.
She stood close but not among them. She looked them over. There were three boys and two girls. One boy was tall and gangly, an adolescent, African-American, and obviously older than eleven. One was very small and thin and was a possibility, though he looked too young. The other was about the right age, and she searched him to see if he looked familiar in any way. Nondescript brown hair, average face. She saw nothing that made her think he might be hers. She scrutinized the girls. One was seven or eight, obviously too young. The other looked the right age, but both were African-American. She stared at the small boy and the average one. One of them could be hers.
Eden came over, obviously happy. “Want to come swimming, Miranda?”
I don’t care about swimming, she wanted to say. Go find out that boy’s birthday for me, she wanted to demand, and that one’s, also. Of course, she said nothing of the kind. “Maybe later,” she smiled. “I’d better get back and help.” And with one last look at the children, she climbed back up the hill.
She forced herself to calm down. She made a plan. She would find out the two boys’ birth dates. She would look for a way, and the way would present itself. But even if she had to resort to walking up to them and asking, she would not leave here until she had done it. Having decided, she felt a little better, and she knew she must come back to the here and now.
Other cars arrived, and soon there were more women and men and everywhere children. She remembered that Ruth had vaguely referred to “a few friends” and smiled. Ruth seemed to collect people the same way others collected stamps or coins.
“The lodge is open if anyone needs a bathroom or kitchen supplies or a fridge,” Ruth hollered. Hector, Henry, Joseph, and Father Leonard went inside and then emerged after a few minutes, carrying out long tables, which Ruth and Miranda covered with white sheets. Then they began setting out the food.
There were salads of all kinds and cut-up fruit, chips, squeeze bottles of condiments, and plates with pickles and lettuce and tomatoes. There were baked beans and creamed corn, mounds of fried chicken and pimiento-and-cheese sandwiches. There were coolers full of soda and ice and jars full of iced tea. The dessert table was filled with cakes and pies and fruit cobblers, some decadent-looking dessert bars with coconut and chocolate, and someone had a hand-cranked ice cream freezer going under the trees.
Joseph had appeared with an oil drum barbeque grill as big as Ruth’s car, which he fired up immediately. He and Henry began mixing up barbeque sauce from an assortment of bottles. Soon there were hot dogs, hamburgers, and chicken sizzling on the grill.
The children laughed and screeched down by the water. Miranda smiled at the sound of splashing and the sight of the bare arms and legs. The men laughed and joked and drank sodas and grilled the food. The women bustled and worked and smiled and talked, and there were two babies, plump and drooly, and over it all, the sound of laughter and the warm sun on her head. She helped and then just watched, drinking it in like something her soul had thirsted for, and suddenly she remembered a plaque in the dining hall. What had it said? She had memorized it that day and could say it by heart. Whoever drinks the water I give him will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life.
She engaged in conversation with several of the women, wishing she had better answers to give their kind questions. She realized she was a woman without a history. She had never stayed put long enough to make one. Hers was a patched-together life, and she wondered if it would always be this way.
They prayed. They ate. And ate some more. The children screamed and splashed and ran around. Looking puffy and comical in their orange life vests, they took paddle boats out onto the lake. Joseph organized a softball game. Miranda got two hits and then struck out on Father Leonard’s fastball.
She rested after the game and chatted with the priest as they watched the children play. He was probably in his late sixties with a shock of unruly white hair and dark eyebrows. Her pulse sped up again as she realized this was her chance.
“How old are most of the children in your home, Father?” she asked.
“They range from eight to fourteen right now,” he said.
Not the answer she wanted. “The two younger boys,” she said. “They’re awfully cute.”
“Um-hmm.” A noncommittal answer.
“How old are they?” she asked.
He gave her a curious stare. “Mark is eleven. Joshua is nine.”
She nodded and they sat in silence. She debated whether or not she should ask another question. “Do you have any foster children whose parents gave them up for adoption?” she finally asked.
“All of them,” he answered, giving her a blank look.
“No, I mean, has there ever been a child who had an adopted family lined up, and then for some reason it fell through?”
He frowned. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious,” she said, trying for a shrug.
“Yes,” he said. “There’s one.” He nodded toward the mob. “Something was wrong with him, and the adoptive parents backed out. They wanted a perfect child,” he said.
“What was the matter?”
“A genetic defect,” he said. “A blood disorder. He bounced around a few times and finally landed with us. He’s been here six years now.”
“Wouldn’t he be returned to the birth parent in a case like that?”
Father Leonard gave her a searching look. “They’re not merchandise, you know. They’re children. They’re nonreturnable.”
She felt shamed and stung by his rebuke, but she could hardly bear the thought of her child suffering apart from her, unwanted and tossed aside. Not once but twice. Three times. “Which boy was it?” she asked.
“Are you shopping, Miss DeSpain?” His tone was incredulous.
She turned to face him, unwilling to back down. He gazed back, meeting her eyes, face still as stone. Obviously, he was not going to talk.
“Is he all right now?” she finally asked quietly.
Father Leonard paused, then nodded, a little more kindly. “He’s all right.”
She gave a quick return nod, and an awkward pause stretched out, which she feared would be followed by questions. “I’d better go see if I can help clean up,” she said. The day didn’t look pleasant and bright any longer. The sooner she was out of here the better. Perhaps she would walk home by herself.
“Look, I’m sorry I spoke sharply,” Father Leonard said. “It’s a tender subject for me.”
“It’s a tender subject for me, too,” she said, her voice tight, then turned away and stood quickly. She was afraid she would cry.
Joseph appeared and stood between them, looking from one to the other. “Am I interrupting something?” he asked.
“No,” Miranda said, “I was just going to help clean up.”
“And I was going to go back for another burger,” Father Leonard said, rising. “Fine job, my boy.” The priest moved off toward the food. She turned to follow.
“Wait,” Joseph said, and he caught her wrist gently.
She stopped and faced him. She was surprised, for he looked a little vulnerable, an expression she hadn’t seen on him.
“Would you like to take a walk up the trail?” he asked.
She hesitated, wondering if it was an ambush. He seemed to read her thoughts.
“No agenda or ulterior motive,” he said, making an X over his chest. “Other than a few minutes of what I hope will be pleasant conversation on a beautiful day.”
“I’m upset,” she finally admitted. She sniffed away her tears, but she could feel the red splotches beginning on her neck. She always broke out with them when she became angry or cried.
“I can see that.” His voice was kind. “I’m a detective, you know.” A quirky smile. “Come take a walk,” he said. “I’ll do the talking, and you can regroup. After fifteen minutes I guarantee your troubles will seem like nothing compared to your boredom.”
She smiled in spite of herself. Another minute’s pause. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll take a walk.”
They walked. He talked, as promised. She breathed deeply and reeled in her stinging heart.
“This trail is thirty-four miles long,” he said. “It follows an abandoned railroad and is named after the train, the Virginia Creeper, which is about what it had to do to climb up the mountains. But this part is flat and perfect for walking.”
She could feel her pulse slow, her face cool. He continued in a quiet voice, deliberately distracting her, she suspected, giving her time to gather herself together.
“My great-grandmother and great-grandfather on my pop’s side used to live over there on Whitetop Mountain,” he said, pointing east, “not far from where I live now. For years up on the mountain there was no railroad and barely any roads. There were pockets of people up there like them who might as well have lived in another time. They built log houses and plowed with mules and doctored themselves with plants and roots. Those are my people,” he said.
She saw who he was for the first time and realized he could not be really known in any place but here. Some people belonged to their settings.
“Anyway, the trail runs from Abingdon down to the Carolina border and intersects with the Appalachian Trail near here. We get bird watchers, fishermen, naturalists, and historians. The rock around here is almost all limestone. Underground streams eat it away and make sinkholes and caverns. You never know what’s under your feet.”
She smiled. He smiled back. He was really quite handsome when he smiled. He had an almost perfectly symmetrical face, a straight nose. His mouth was relaxed into a smile today instead of the grim line she had first seen. His forehead was unlined, and his green eyes gentle.
“What kind of tree is this?” she asked, pointing toward the huge mammoth with the opening as big as a man in the roots.
“It’s a giant sycamore,” he said. “They like their feet to be wet. Look for them near streams. The first settlers slept inside them while they were clearing the land for their cabins. I’ve heard the woods were so thick they couldn’t grow grains. They ate turkey breast and called it bread.”
She tried to imagine the woods so dark and deep and didn’t have to strain her imagination. “I went to West Virginia the day we had sarsaparilla by the creek,” she said.
“Oh?”
She nodded. “I was looking for my mother’s people. She was from Thurmond.”
“Where the only difference between it and hell is the river,” Joseph said.
She nodded and barely suppressed a shudder. “It’s true,” she said. “There’s a darkness there. I could feel it.”
He didn’t ridicule her, just looked at her wisely. “I know what you mean,” he said. “I can feel it, too, in different places. I don’t feel it here, though,” he said. “I suppose that’s why I stayed on when I probably should have left. To try to do everything I can to keep the darkness out.”
“I’m glad you did,” she said, and then felt a little embarrassed, but he didn’t seem to read more into the comment than he should have. They walked on peaceably, and he pointed out more trees and birds. He told her there were bears that sometimes wandered onto the trail, and bobcats. He showed her his favorite fishing stream but said to find the best spot he followed it deep into the woods.
“Was it fun growing up at the camp?” she asked.
He smiled. “It was a boy’s paradise. My brother and I had forts in the woods, and BB guns. We swam in the lake and fished and rowed. We hunted in the woods. There were always kids to play with. School was the only insult.”
She smiled. “I can imagine. It seems like a wonderful place to live.”
“You should have met my dad,” he said. “He was a great man.”
“How long ago did he die?”
“About thirteen years ago,” he said.
“I wish I could have met him, too.”
They had reached the bridge over the confluence of the two branches of the Holston River. “I suppose we should turn back,” he said. “They’ll be wondering where we went.”
They watched the muddy water of the Middle Fork merge with the clear water of the South. “The Middle Fork drains farmland,” Joseph explained. “Lots of dirt and sludge. The South drains the mountains where it’s too rocky to farm, so it’s clear.”
She wished she, too, had a history. A place. Somewhere she knew she belonged, whose features she knew. “I envy you,” she said.
“Why on earth do you envy me?” He looked genuinely surprised.
“Because you know where you belong.”
He gave her an inscrutable look. “I suppose.”
They turned and walked back. “Thank you,” she said after they’d traveled awhile. He didn’t ask what for, and she was glad.
“You’re welcome,” he said. “Do you feel like talking about what upset you?”
She was tempted. Genuinely tempted. She desperately needed an ally. Someone she could trust, but she didn’t know if he fit that description. Would she ever know? she wondered. “Maybe someday,” she said, and he nodded, seeming content for now with that answer.
As they walked back toward the campground, Miranda was aware of many sets of eyes on them.
Apparently Joseph was, as well. “It’s a small town,” he said. “I’m afraid they’ll all be talking tomorrow.”
“Let them talk,” she said easily and continued walking beside him.
The party was breaking up. Miranda waited for a chance to talk to the two boys, but she had none. In fact, they were dressed and loading back into Father Leonard’s van. She felt a sinking feeling as they did so. Fortunately, Lieutenant Joseph was busy moving tables and loading up equipment, so she didn’t have to contend with his probing eyes.
She helped Ruth pack up, and just as they were ready to leave, both Henry and Joseph got calls on their cell phones within minutes of each other. They both conversed in monosyllables, and right before her eyes, the kind, relaxed Joseph became the suspicious detective again. He closed his phone with a snap just seconds before Henry did, and arrangements were quickly made for Ruth and her and the children to be transported back to town without Joseph’s truck.
