In Search of Eden, page 31
“I asked myself for years after that, what could I have done? What could I have done different to help him, and I never can see what it might have been. Anyway, he went on and I got married to a supervisor down at the railroad, and we had a nice house and had four children. Buried one, but raised three, and every now and then I’d see Beck. He didn’t live in town but up in the hills in the same house he’d grown up in. It’s dark up there. Real dark, soul dark, if you know what I mean.” She shook her head.
“Anyway, after I’d been married a year or so, Beck went off to the army. They sent him to Korea. He stayed gone a few years and then come back, and everybody said he’d been dishonorably discharged. They said he’d killed another soldier, but they weren’t able to prove it. He went on back up to the hills, but he didn’t go back to work in the mine. The coal had just about give out by then, anyway. I heard he ran liquor up there, but I don’t know. After a time he took a shine to one of the miners’ girls. Her name was Lois. Lois Gibson. She was a pretty thing, now. She had blond hair, too, and pink cheeks and the sweetest smile. She wasn’t one of my students. Her daddy hired on after I’d quit teaching. You know, people used to move around the camps a lot. One seam would give out, and they’d go to another.
“Well, Beck took on about Lois, and it seemed like she was in love with him, too. Her daddy wouldn’t have it, though. Put his foot down one night and met Beck with the shotgun. Beck said, ‘Lois, you come out here. I don’t want to shoot your daddy.’ And Mr. Gibson said, ‘Stay where you are, Lois. You go off with him, and I guarantee you’ll wish I’d have killed you both this night.’
“Well, you know what happened. That night Beck went on home, but in the morning when her daddy went into the children’s room, Lois was gone. They ran off to Beckley. Stayed gone six months or so working a mine over in Mingo County, and when they came back, she was expecting a baby.
“They went back up in the hills and hardly anybody ever saw Lois after that. Her daddy went after her, and he didn’t come back, and even the law was afraid of Beck by then. They started calling him Wolf, because he had a way of knowing a person’s weak spot and hurting them there and because of the way he’d get somebody off alone and hurt them.
“He and Lois had three daughters. The first one, Rebecca, drowned when she was ten. That’s what they said, anyway. The second was named Noreen, and the least one was Roberta. They called her Bobbie.”
Miranda looked stunned. Her eyes were glassy. “Noreen,” she repeated. “Noreen was my mother.” Mrs. Tallert looked shocked at first, then as Joseph watched, her face softened into sadness. After a moment she took up her story again.
“That winter Lois took influenza and died, and it was just Beck and the two little girls up in the woods. All of Lois’s people had left by then. After Beck shot her daddy they’d moved to Arkansas, where they had some people. Those two little children were all alone. And that’s when I knew I had to do something. My husband didn’t want me to, but you know, sometimes there’s things a person feels called to do. So the preacher’s wife and I went up there together, with our husbands waiting in the car. The preacher was praying and Jimmy, my husband, had his twelve-gauge aimed out the window. But we went on up to the door, and I called out, ‘Beck, it’s Miss White, your teacher.’ He came to the door himself after a little bit, and I wouldn’t have recognized him if it weren’t for that hair and those eyes. He’d just sort of withered away from the inside. It’s hard to tell it.
“He spoke to me just as nice as you please, and I asked if I could come in, and he said it was a mess right now, that he couldn’t make those girls do a thing. And I said, ‘Beck, that’s what I come to talk to you about. I want you to let those girls come down and go to school. The bus will pick them up down at the road in the morning and let them off in the afternoon. You ought to do it, Beck,’ I said. ‘It’s the right thing.’ And he said, ‘You know, that’s something I always did appreciate about you, Miss White. You never did act like you knew what I was like.’
“I’ll never forget him saying that, but the next day the girls were there at the school. Ragged and pitiful, but they were there.
“There were some good years then, I think. Beck started letting the girls come down and go to church on Sundays. They even got to go off on trips with the young people a time or two. The only time they’d ever been out of West Virginia or even Thurmond, for that matter. The minister’s wife hired Noreen and Roberta to work for her twice a week, cleaning house and taking care of her children. It was a way to give them money, you see, without hurting anybody’s pride. Things went on that way for a while.
“I believe Noreen finished seventh grade. She was such a smart girl, your mama. Just as smart as a whip, and Bobbie was, too. But one day Noreen came in with a big whelp on her face, and I asked her what was wrong, and she said she’d been taking care of her sister. After that she came in with marks and bruises nearly every week. My husband and the preacher talked to the sheriff and to the mine boss, but everybody was afraid of Wolf, and back then things were different. The women were like the man’s property, and he could do whatever he pleased with them.
“Well, finally one day Noreen told the preacher’s wife that she was going to have a child. The preacher’s wife said, ‘Come away and live down here with us,’ because we all knew whose child it was. But Noreen said she couldn’t leave her little sister, because if she left he would just start in on her. ‘Bring her, too,’ the preacher’s wife said—Helen was her name—but Noreen said, ‘Now, Mrs. Webb, you know he’d just as soon kill us as let us go.’
“So Helen carried Noreen to see the doctor, and she was expecting, sure enough. She didn’t come to school anymore after that, but the preacher’s wife and I would take her things from time to time. Eggs and milk and some vegetables, when we had them. The baby was born, but it was too little and didn’t live long. It was a boy and had white hair just like Wolf’s.
“Shame, shame, shame. That’s all she was after that. She would hold her head up real fierce, but it was shame that had her down deep. The preacher and his wife tried to help her, but something had turned hard down deep in her soul. I tried to talk to her, too, but it didn’t do any good. She started slipping off from home and going down to Thurmond to the saloon there, and after a while she took up with a fellow passing through. He was a handsome thing. Name of Tommy something. Something Spanish.”
“DeSpain,” Miranda said, her voice hardly more than a whisper.
“That’s it.” Mrs. Tallert smiled gently. “Well, Tommy took a shine to Noreen and started waiting for her every night, and one night she didn’t come to the saloon. Everybody warned him, but he said he wasn’t afraid of some old hillbilly with a shotgun, and he drove his truck right up the mountain and parked it in front of the house.
“Some of the men followed him up there. I don’t know if they meant to help or just watch the show. I believe the Lord had His hand on them that day, because Wolf had taken sick and was a-laying in the bed, or I’m sure he would have shot that young fellow. Some say one of the girls put something in his food, but I don’t know about that. Anyway, Tommy went in there and saw the bruises on Noreen’s face, and they said that little Bobbie was crying and begging him not to kill her daddy. They said that was the only thing that saved Beck. Said Tommy DeSpain had his pistol out and was ready to shoot him. But in the end, he just took those two girls with the clothes on their backs and left.
“I never saw them again. Neither did Helen, far as I know. She’s gone now, too. She had the sugar diabetes real bad.
“Anyway, that’s the story of Wolf. He died right after those girls left. He was walking across the trestle down there by town one night, drunk, and he fell and killed himself. I reckon he fell, anyway,” she said.
The silence filled the room again. Joseph looked down. At some point he had reached for Miranda’s hand, and their fingers were now laced tightly together.
chapter 42
*
Miranda was stunned. She was beyond tears. She sat in the silence after Mrs. Tallert finished telling the story. After a moment the old woman spoke again.
“I could draw you a map if you want to go up there where Lois and Rebecca and the baby are buried. Beck’s cabin was just down the hollow from there. It burned down a few years back, but you can still see the chimney.”
Miranda recoiled but forced herself to not run away from the pain this time. She felt as if she had to be a witness to what had happened to her mother. She nodded mutely. Joseph looked concerned. Mrs. Tallert gave him simple directions, and he nodded and thanked her.
Miranda had come with other questions, but they had been buried under this avalanche of evil. Right now she could not think. She thanked Mrs. Tallert and stood up but was surprised when the old lady held up a warning finger.
“I’ve got three things to say to you, child, before you leave.”
What more could there be? Miranda steeled herself, nodded, and sat back down.
“You can’t hear a story like that and stay right in your mind unless you know these things,” she said. “So listen to me.”
Miranda recognized the faint shadow of the schoolmarm at the Thurmond school.
“The first is, there’s none righteous. Not one. Every one of us could have been a Beck Maddux if it weren’t for the grace of God. Some might look better on the outside, but every one of us follows in Adam’s footsteps one way or another.”
Miranda nodded mutely.
“The second is, Ezekiel eighteen says God doesn’t hold the child responsible for the sins of the parents. Or the grandparents.
“And the last thing is this. Jesus was kin to the prostitute, Rahab. He pardoned the thief on the cross, and what does Paul say about the murderers and adulterers and thieves? He says, ‘Such were some of you, but you were washed.’ Don’t take on about this,” she warned, giving Miranda a look that was both stern and compassionate. “When you see those graves, remember . . . that’s your history, not your future.”
She stood up and walked them to the door with much trembling and shuffling. Her granddaughter fussed, but she insisted, standing on the porch until they walked away.
They got into the car, and Joseph backed out to the main road. He stopped, then turned and faced her. “Do you really want to go up to the cabin?” he asked.
Miranda looked out the window. It was getting dark. Maybe she could come back another time, and suddenly she wanted to leave, to be out of here. But it was odd, for it was just as if someone kind and strong took her hand then, someone bigger than Joseph, and told her she should look, and she knew it would be all right. She nodded. “I do,” she said.
He didn’t argue but shifted, executed a quick turn, and headed up the winding road. They drove for another ten or fifteen minutes; then he turned in where Mrs. Tallert had told him. The road ended shortly afterward. They got out, and after a moment Miranda saw the chimney. It was red brick, now burned black and covered with kudzu. It was dark up here, the trees dripping rain. She walked around the ruins but got no feelings at all other than sadness this time. After a moment she and Joseph walked a ways uphill and found the three graves. They were marked with piles of stones, one large, two small. Miranda stared for a minute, and suddenly her mother’s bitterness seemed amazing in its smallness. What was not understandable was how she had been able to function at all. How she had given herself to a man—to any man. How she had managed to keep a child fed and clothed. Suddenly she was remembering the presents under the tree instead of the speed with which the decorations had been put away. She had an overwhelming sense of gratitude to her mother, who had certainly given more than she’d received.
Miranda cried then for her mother and was sorry for her own hatefulness. Joseph took her hand again, and they stood there until she felt finished.
The drive home was silent. When they pulled up in front of the funeral home, Joseph unloaded the cooler and walked her upstairs to the door of the apartment.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice sounding small to her ears. “I can’t imagine what it would have been like without you.”
His face was serious. “You’re welcome. I was glad to do it.”
She didn’t want to be alone, but she couldn’t talk, either. Finally she said good-night. He gave her hand a final squeeze and, after a last searching look, left her.
She closed the door, then went to the little window and stared out, not seeing anything but the past. Remembering and understanding. So much made sense now. About her mother and her aunt. Even about her father, who must have realized Noreen’s heart could not receive him.
But something bothered her, too. Was this where she had gotten the distance, the emotional coldness that allowed her to leave without good-byes? That made her shut people out before they became indispensable? Had Beck passed that on to her? She did not want to be like Beck. She did not want his blood in her veins. She tried to remember what Mrs. Tallert had said. It had been comforting, but it eluded her now. She wished she had some proof, something real before her eyes that would remind her that goodness could come out of her, that she wasn’t doomed or too far gone to redeem.
There came a tapping on the door. She drew her eyes back from the gaping stare and focused them. She shook her head and went to answer it.
“Who’s there?” she asked.
“It’s Eden,” a voice answered.
Miranda opened the door and looked down. It was Eden, all right. She was wearing shorts and flip-flops, scratching one leg with the other foot. In her hands she carried her two-way radio, a grocery sack, and her sleeping bag and pillow. On her back was her pack. Miranda stared, puzzled.
“Uncle Joseph brought me. He said you could use some company, and Grandma said it was all right. She sent over some dinner and some brownies. I brought my scrapbook and my stories,” she hurried on. “I’m working on a new plot about Annie Oakley and some train robbers. Grady helped start it today, but you could help finish. If you want to. I mean, if you want me to stay. Uncle Joseph is waiting in case you’d rather I didn’t.”
And suddenly there was no sweeter sight than the freckled face surrounded by thick brown cowlicks. She threw open the door. “Of course I want you,” she said. “Come in.”
Eden grinned, then turned and looked down over her shoulder. She made an okay sign with her thumb and forefinger.
Miranda followed her eyes. Joseph sat there in the truck, lights on, watching. She smiled and held up a hand in thanks. He nodded and drove away, and as Eden stepped inside, Miranda closed the door behind her.
chapter 43
*
Ruth couldn’t interest Joseph in Sunday dinner. He went to work directly after church, hot on the trail of the Irish Travelers. There had been another sighting of them yesterday evening, but he’d been gone somewhere. Somewhere with Miranda, according to Eden and Grady, who had been spying on them at the farmers’ market. Ruth usually disliked for him to miss Sunday dinner, but she had to admit she wasn’t entirely disappointed he would be occupied today. It would give her an opportunity to talk to Johnny Adair about the campground. She felt a slight twinge of guilt for keeping the project a secret from Joseph, not to mention her trusting Johnny Adair at all. But she knew what Joseph would say, and she felt that in this case he was entirely wrong. Ruth could look into a person’s eyes and tell if they were honest or not. And when she looked into Mr. Adair’s eyes, she saw who he was, who he could become.
She phoned him after church and made arrangements to meet him at the camp at suppertime.
“Then allow me to introduce you to my barbeque skills,” he said. “I’ve got some ribs that will be wonderful on the grill.”
The plans were made. Grady showed up on his bike a little later, and he and Eden went off and did whatever Eden did with her stacks of Wanted posters and her notebook. Ruth was less worried about her granddaughter now that Grady was along. He seemed to have a calming influence, or perhaps it was just harder for Eden to follow every impulse when she had to at least take the time to instruct Grady on what she had in mind. Those two were well suited to each other, she thought, and she gave a secret smile and an inward prayer of thanks. It was almost as if it had been planned.
In fact, it seemed that way about a lot of things in their lives right now. Even though she knew Miranda did not share her faith, Ruth had the feeling that God was at work. She could see it in Miranda’s face as they sat together in church, and Eden had told her that Miranda had been talking with Pastor Hector. And Joseph seemed to be mellowing. In fact, she thought those two were good for each other now that the initial sparks had flown. Time would tell.
David and Sarah were the faith test right now. There was always at least one thing in her life about which Ruth must simply believe. Whenever she thought of David and Sarah, she prayed and she trusted. That was all she could do, but she told herself it was enough.
She passed the afternoon baking a cake and quilting, a rare opportunity for her these last months. She finished piecing the Mariner’s Compass and sewed on the sashing and borders and pinned it together with the batting and backing. Now it was ready to quilt. She would take it upstairs and begin that process tomorrow.
By suppertime Eden and Grady were cleaned up somewhat and loaded into the car, along with a sack of sweet corn Ruth had gotten at the farmers’ market and the chocolate cake she had made that afternoon. They drove to the camp. The children immediately ran off yelling, and Ruth looked around in wonder.
The porch on the lodge had been replaced, as had the roof supports. The lawn had been mowed; the fragrance of the freshly cut grass was as sweet as perfume. The old roof had been taken off the chapel and new plywood nailed down. She looked closer and saw that the windows in both buildings had been reglazed. Then she saw Johnny walking up the hill toward her.
