Between Times-
Chapter Nine -Part Three...
In Part Three of Chapter Nine, Drum makes a commitment for his future and is ambushed by his past…
BETWEEN TIMES
CHAPTER NINE - PART THREE
Lizbet didn’t go up to the Shining Rocks after her mother died. Judy had been the anchor and compass for her days. Without her, Lizbet felt her already tenuous hold on the world slipping a bit every day. Her father seemed to her suddenly fragile in some way she couldn’t define to herself. He needed her here. Lizbet was certain of that.
Her aunt had gone off with Drum to California, then phoned to say he had been hurt, perhaps crippled. Later she wrote that she wasn’t coming back with him. Nothing held solid. Nobody in Lizbet’s life remained as she had always known them. The world was no longer real. If she had to stay in it, for James’ sake, she would stay away from the Shining Rocks. If she went through the Stones again, Lizbet doubted she could summon will to return. She had reached the place where most people arrive in old age, when the heart holds more love for the dead than for the living.
James, miraculously, Lizbet thought, stayed sober. The bottles disappeared. That was James’ way with things. Whatever became a problem in his life, he avoided or put away. He looked normal. He acted normal. He tended to his business, took care of himself and his daughter, tried to be good company to her. But Lizbet could see that something was missing. There was a joylessness about him, even though he smiled when he spoke to her and laughed at her jokes. The feeling part of him, the alive part, had gone somewhere. Lizbet thought it had gone wherever Judy was now.
Lizbet figured she had a pretty good idea about where the dead go. She had seen Horace there. She had never seen Annie there, though, or her sisters. That was another reason she didn’t go to the Shining Rocks anymore. If she went through to the Other Side, and didn’t find Judy, what would that mean? Of course the Other Side was probably just as big at this side. She had not seen many people over there at all. If she ever did go back there, she intended to ask Horace about her kinswomen and Annie Starling. She wished Drum would come back. She would ask him. Lizbet had a nagging suspicion he might know something. She hoped he would still be able to walk on the mountain with her.
Sometimes, Lizbet rode her bike down to Annie’s house, Drum’s house now, and filled her basket with vegetables from the garden. It was getting overgrown with weeds now that Caleb was gone to the army and Drum wasn’t here to take care of it. It was in the garden that Lizbet saw the Dark Man for the first time. She was picking grapes and looked up and he was standing by the river, watching her. She thought at first, he was Drum.
“Hello,” Lizbet said. “I’m surprised to see you. Nobody told me you were back.”
“I’m surprised you can see me,” The Dark Man answered. His voice was almost like singing, flowing up and down, and the words were not English, his lips moving hardly at all as he spoke, but, strangely, she knew what he said. She could see then that he wasn’t Drum. He looked like Drum, darker maybe, and a little younger, but definitely not Drum.
Lizbet tried a smile, “I can’t help but see you. You’re standing right in front of me. How come I can understand you?”
The Dark Man smiled back, “We are speaking the One Tongue. We can do that because this is a sacred Telling Place. Even the animals and birds can talk to us here if they want to.”
The Dark Man walked up to her and lifted his hand toward her. He was small, like Drum, not much taller than Lizbet, and his clothes looked like some kind of soft leather. Lizbet raised her hand and touched his, palm to palm.
The Dark Man looked surprised, “I thought you were a ghost,” he said. He reached up again and brushed the tips of her fingers with his, just to be sure.
The breeze gusted and the Dark Man seemed to flicker slightly before her, the way Annie had done.
Lizbet wondered and pondered a moment. “If one of us is a ghost,” she asked the Dark Man, “How would we know?”
The Dark Man hesitated, as if he had just thought of something that had never occurred to him before. He reached down to pick up a pebble, but couldn’t seem to get a grip on it. Then he stepped back and pointed at it. “Throw that stone at me,” he told Lizbet.
She bent and picked up the stone.
“Throw hard,” he said.
Lizbet threw the pebble as hard as she could at his chest. The stone passed right through him and bounced off the trunk of a sycamore by the river.
#
The sign in front of Millie Robbins’ inn said Hillhaven. To Asheton locals during the forties, it was just Millie’s place. Tourists occupied most of the rooms in season, and the food, plain and good, drew enough diners from the townfolk to fill the tables for several seatings every morning and evening. At noon, the “roomers and streeters,” as Millie called them, were on their own. Millicent only ate twice a day herself. “I can’t cook when I’m not hungry,” she said whenever someone complained that she didn’t serve lunch.
She presided over the rambling Victorian structure like a capricious but benevolent monarch. Her eccentricities were more endearing than irritating often enough that her roomers came back year after year. The diners forgave her for occasionally ushering them from their chairs as soon as their plates were empty because people stood waiting in the hall for a table. They knew that should they be late in line themselves, Millie would make straight their path to nourishment.
According to local legend, a noted writer had shot himself on the upper level of the double veranda that wrapped around two sides of the house. The natives told the tourists that the inn was haunted. When curious visitors asked her about the resident spirit, Millie told them she didn’t believe in ghosts as a rule, but she had seen him a few times. None of the guests ever reported a sighting, although a few said they had heard things in the night.
#
Drum had difficulty starting his old pickup after it had been sitting so long, but just when he was about to give up, the engine caught, and he drove over to Hillhaven where he found the parking lot nearly full. He locked his bags in the pickup, braved the porch steps, and went in through double stained glassed doors to a high ceilinged hall, dark as a cave after the bright sunlight outside. The door clicked behind and quiet enveloped him. A large fan whispered and purred faintly overhead, slowly slicing shadows. When Drum’s eyes adjusted to the dim, he spied Millie at her little desk, sorting through her mail.
She looked up when she heard the door, pulled her glasses down to the end of her nose, and inspected Drum closely, noting his cane, “Well, then, you seem worse for wear. Must have been a tough trip.”
“It was interesting, Millie, and my hurt leg doesn’t feel up to driving home tonight. I was hoping you might have a place at your table for supper and a bed to sleep in before morning.”
“Just for tonight?”
“Just for tonight, though your cooking is a lot better than what I get at home.”
“Well, Drum, the rooms are all booked, but if you don’t mind sleeping on a daybed out on my little porch upstairs, I can keep you. It’s trellised with trumpet vines and up off the street. You’ll have your privacy, but you’ll have to share a bath.”
Drum reached for his wallet, “I’ll take it. How much, Millie?”
“It isn’t proper lodging, I’ll not charge you for camping, but you can pay for your supper.”
“Thanks, Millie; you’re a saint.”
“We’re all saints, Drum. Some of us just don’t know it yet.”
Leaving his cane beside the door, Drum went back out to his pickup, slung his gear bag over his shoulder, hoisted a suitcase in each hand, gritted his teeth, and limped toward the house. At the top of the steps, he put down the luggage to rest. Millie came out the door, handed him his cane, took the suitcases and went back in. By the time Drum got through the door, she was halfway up the stairs just inside.
Without looking around, Millie called back to him, “When you are able, Drum, follow me.”
Drum sighed, and meekly pursued, while Millie traipsed up the stairs as if carrying pillows. She waited for him when she reached the second floor. When Drum grimaced his way to the upper landing, Millie, still holding his luggage, wheeled and led him off down another hall to a door opening onto a small porch at the back of the house. Through thickly laced trumpet vine bedecked with a constellation of scarlet blossoms, Drum glimpsed rising above the intervening ridges, the distinctive profile of Myrtle Mountain, purple with distance.
Millie set down the suitcases and herded Drum past a curtained window, a small table with two chairs, a door, and a daybed already made for sleeping. She opened a door at the far end of the porch, which had been enclosed to improvise a bath.
Inside the bath, she pointed to another door, “That’s to my room. There’s no lock on the outer door, so be sure to knock before you barge in.”
Back out on the porch, Drum collapsed onto the day bed, groaning softly in spite of himself.
Millie, hand on hips, appraised his condition, “You’re hurting some, boy. There’s a ceiling fan up here to keep the mosquitoes off. It’ll be cool enough for comfort. We’ll bring your supper up here so you won’t have to ply the stairs again tonight.”
“I’ve asked Henry Thurston to join me for supper, Millie. We have some business to talk over.”
“When he gets here, Drum, we’ll send him right up. Youns can eat up here and scheme in private. That way, Thurston won’t have to hide his bottle.”
Before Drum could speak, Millie was gone, closing the door behind her. He heard her bounding off down the stair like a girl at play. He wondered where she found such energy. Traffic murmured in the street, sounding far away. Drum listened to a cook scolding his helper on the porch below, but couldn’t make out the words. A mocking bird called from an old pine across the yard. Drum looked at his watch. Two more hours before Thurston showed up. Drum took off his shoes, a task that brought pangs to his insulted hip. He lay back on the day bed, sank his head into a feather pillow, and before the mocking bird sang again, was oblivious.
Drum sat in the circle on the ridge above Horace’s hideout. The night, moonless and dark, kept whispering something to him he couldn’t understand. Annie, Horace and Mura were in the circle with him. In the dark, he couldn’t see their faces but he knew who they were. No one spoke. Drum wondered if they were waiting on him to say something, but he could not bear to break the holy silence.
After a year or two, Mura said, “I’m sorry, Drum.”
Drum’s response came out like a scold, “Don’t be sorry for anything, Mura. You taught me all the skill I have. I’ve lived my whole life by your example. You, Annie, Horace have made me who I am. Don’t any of you be sorry on my account.”
“I’m sorry,” Mura said again, and Drum was alone.
When he realized he wasn’t alone anymore, Drum opened his eyes. The ghost leaned against the porch railing, smoking a cigarette, watching him with a strange expression that could have expressed either pity or envy.
Drum closed his eyes, opened them again. The ghost was still there.
Drum said, “You must be the writer.”
The ghost drew deeply on his cigarette, expelled a cloud of smoke, itself a wee ghost in search of form, “And you must be the photographer.”
“Guilty,” said the photographer.
“Everybody’s guilty,” said the ghost
Drum sat up. The sudden movement pained, made him wince. The ghost faded into the vines. A single firefly drifted across the porch, flashing longing and loneliness against the dusky air.
Drum gathered some clean clothes from his bag, went to the bath, knocked dutifully, and when there was no answer, went in to wash for supper. The shower finally began to warm by the time he finished. Drum looked in the mirror, wondered if the dark mark on his forehead would ever fade, rubbed his scratchy chin. He really should shave before dinner. He decided to grow a beard, instead.
When he came out of the bathroom, someone had set the table, and lit several large Japanese style lanterns hanging from the ceiling. An open bottle of wine stood waiting beside his plate. Drum poured some into his glass, looked out at the last of day fading over Myrtle Mountain. The wine was good.
“Save that for your dinner, Drum.” Henry Thurston stood in the doorway, holding up a paper shopping bag, his fist clenched tight around the contents, “I have something more therapeutic here.”
When Thurston finished his second shot of therapy and was about to polish off a third, Millie, trailed by one of her helpers, pushed open the door and supper descended upon the two men, green beans, stuffed squash, country ham steaks, fresh tomatoes and cantaloupe, and a huge salad with radishes and pickled beets.
“Too much green stuff,” growled Thurston good naturedly, “What’s for dessert?”
Millie rapped his balding pate with her knuckles. “If that plate isn’t cleared when I get back, you don’t get any.”
“Ouch!” Thurston strove to appear injured. “You abuse all your guests like this? No wonder nobody wants to eat here.”
Millie pointed to Thurston’s coffee cup, “Drink the rest of your poison, so Alice can pour something to keep you from falling into a drunken stupor before you finish your dinner.”
Thurston obeyed enthusiastically. Drum turned his cup upright and Alice filled them both. Millie replenished their water glasses, and admonished Drum, while directing a mock glare at Thurston, “Don’t let this pirate cheat you Drum; I know he’s trying to sell you that floundering business of his.”
Thurston affected an indignant scowl, “If you minded your own business like you mind everybody else’s, Millie, you’d be the richest woman in Asheton. Anybody ever tell you you talk way too much?”
“None who love me,” said Millie over her shoulder as she pushed Alice through the door ahead of her.
When they were gone, Thurston walked over to the railing and emptied his water over the side. Then he retrieved his bottle and poured another shot of whiskey into his glass. “Let’s eat, he said, “I’m starving.”
They ate and talked, and Thurston drank a little more of his whiskey, although he seemed to realize when he had reached his maximum capacity. They discussed the sale of High Country Photography as if they both weren’t already decided. The price was less than fair and Drum didn’t quibble. Payment would be in a percentage of the profits and Thurston would stay on as a “consultant,” until he received all his money.
“If I die in the meantime,” he told Drum, looking deadly serious, “I’ll will you the rest.”
They did clear their plates and wished for seconds. While they were waiting for Millie or Alice to appear with dessert, Thurston reached back into his shopping bag and pulled out a bundle of folded paper, tied with a string. “I found these stuffed in a box with some old plates and negatives, thought you might be interested.”
He handed them to Drum. There were letters sent to Mura from various unknown correspondents. Mura had written notations on the back of some of the pages. A few still had their envelopes and Drum was intrigued with the old stamps and postmarks. Some of them had been mailed from Japan. The address on one caught his eye. Tadahito Kitamura, C/O Mr. Oren Shorts, 36 Mountain View Avenue, Asheton, North Carolina, USA. He shuffled back through the stack to find a sheet Mura had written on. He recognized the handwriting.
Drum forgot to breathe as he studied the envelope, Tad ... Ted ... Kitamura ... Mura. It seemed so obvious now. How had he never noticed the resemblance? But Tadahito seemed younger than Mura, more lively, more…lusty. Drum had never guessed, would not have guessed in a thousand years. Even with his own impossible history, he could hardly accept what his eyes were telling him to believe. He understood now the severe courtesy Mura always exhibited toward him, as if his mentor had something he wanted to apologize for.
He didn’t see Millie coming through the door behind him with a huge chess pie in one hand and saucers and forks in the other. “Holy Shit.” he said aloud, staring at the papers he held.
Millie kicked his chair as she set down the pie, “Don’t be profane under my roof. It’s ungracious.”
Thurston lifted his glasses, peered sharply at Drum, “What’s that about?”
“I’ve seen a ghost,” said the photographer.
Drum woke next morning with a buzzing in his head. When he opened his eyes, a hummingbird with throat the color of the blossoms was inventorying the trumpet vines. Sunlight filtered down through the vines. The brilliant colors of the shadowed bird flared whenever a ray touched her. Drum tried to recall something about a firefly, remembered the ghost, who, Millie had explained over dessert, was Gerald Fox, a self-destructive writer and all the rage during the twenties. He had a lover in Asheton. Millie seemed to know who, but she wasn’t saying. He had a wife in New York who wouldn’t grant him a divorce. He lost all his money during the Crash. His last novel was a huge flop, and he shot himself on the porch where they were eating, not on the veranda, as they told the tourists.
Drum had mentioned seeing the ghost because there was no way he could explain his reaction to Mura’s letters. By the time he told his tale of haunting and Millie told all hers, nobody seemed to remember what had sparked the conversation.
This was the first morning since his accident Drum had come awake without his leg hurting, and although by the time he had showered and dressed, it had begun to twinge again, he was glad and grateful for this sign of his healing. Today was Sunday. Millie’s dining room was closed on Sunday. Maybe he would stop off and breakfast with James and Lizbet if they hadn’t eaten already. He’d phone them before he left town. He supposed Millie would be at church somewhere, but when Drum gathered his bags and started down the stair he met Millie coming up with their breakfast on a tray.
“I thought you’d be off to church,” he said, putting down his bags as she handed him the tray,
“I don’t go to church,” she answered, “I close the restaurant so the help can worship if they like, and have a family day.” Millie came past him and opened the door as he turned to follow.
“But you’re religious, I know. Don’t you belong to a congregation?” Drum asked her as he set the tray on the table.
“I believe in God,” Millie sat down and began laying out their plates, “I don’t much believe in church. That has more to do with human pride and prejudice than with divine love and mercy.”
Drum couldn’t argue. He eased into the chair opposite. Millie poured their tea. Drum reached to butter his toast, but she lay her hand on his to stay him and bowed her head, “Lord, we receive unworthily, and we are thankful as much as we know how.”
“Amen,” said Drum.
“Amen,” said Millie
They ate slowly and with many pauses as Millie talked and talked and talked and Drum listened and remembered every word.
It was nearly two hours later when Drum drove across McMinn Gap and the sheriff’s car came up behind him and passed, crowding him slightly on the curve. The cruiser disappeared round the next bend, but as he came up on James’ drive, he caught sight of it again, turning up the hill toward the house. When Drum pulled up in front of the house, the car sat with door open, lights still flashing, and the brand new sheriff, Marcus Dill was talking to James. The sheriff looked serious. James looked traumatized.
As he walked toward them, Drum heard James say to the sheriff, “She got off the school bus with the Bradley girls and walked up the drive. That’s the last they saw. I don’t know where she could be. We looked all over for her yesterday, and then I called you.”
“What’s going on here, James?” Drum asked.
James’ voice trembled, “Lizbet’s gone, Drum. We don’t know where.”
To be continued…
Next week, as chapter ten opens, Benjamin Drum and friends come to terms with loss and time.
Walk in hope-
-henry