The Summer People

Front matter

THE SUMMER

PEOPLE

THE APPALACHIAN CONSORTIUM

Chapter I

How could two or three weeks with an old woman in a place called Holy Rood Valley cure more than six years of pain and frustration? It was too much to expect or even to hope for. The hell with it! She shook her head and concentrated on the climbing road.

After the van ahead had crossed the narrow bridge and crept into the right lane of the four-lane segment of highway, Anna DeVoss shifted to third and stamped down on the accelerator, her long legs working in unison with her arms. The red Porsche shot ahead into the left lane, throwing Anna’s head back against the headrest. She glanced toward her mother-in-law to see if she had been inconvenienced. Mrs. DeVoss stared straight ahead, a troubled look narrowing her eyes. Anna knew she was worrying about an older sister in a Jacksonville hospital.

Once past the van, she cut back into the right lane and slowed, climbing the eastern slope of the Appalachians at a more leisurely pace. Suddenly there was a tightness in her ears and she swallowed, clearing them. She turned her head occasionally, gazing through the huge bug-eyed sun shades at the green knolls and ridges as they swelled skyward to her right or dropped away to her left. Approaching three thousand feet, she could feel a change in the air, an unfamiliar coolness as the backwash swept past her left arm resting on the door.

Just before they climbed the final grade, before they ducked beneath the stone bridge of the Parkway and crossed the spine of the Blue Ridge at Deep Gap, Anna looked back to her left. The Appalachians rolled away toward the Piedmont to the south-east, blue and misty, ridge beyond ridge, mountain dome after mountain dome, fading out in haze along the horizon. The farthest range she could discern appeared higher than the Blue Ridge, but she knew it was an illusion. The mountains were actually stepping downward toward the foothills, toward the rolling landscape of the western North Carolina Piedmont and the flatlands beyond. From the highway east of Wilkesboro, the range she now crossed had climbed toward the sky, blue and hazy. But now, spreading around her, the slopes wore the brilliant green of early June. She and Pete had once driven along Skyline Drive, in western Virginia’s modest contribution to the Appalachian range, but she had never been in mountains this rugged before. They subdued her. She had an urge to steer onto the right shoulder and hug the bank, away from the dropoff to her left. Yet there was a tranquility in being here that assuaged ever so slightly the old sadness hovering about the edges of her awareness. Beyond the Blue Ridge, the sensation of being in the mountains diminished, as she drove through rolling hills and farmlands and passed small roadside businesses.

The town of Boone, dominated by the highrise dormitories of Appalachian State University, lay along a narrow valley, spilling over hills and ridges to the east and west. They stopped at a huge old building of faded weatherboarding and ate lunch, served from dishes placed on their table, family style. Mrs. DeVoss nibbled at her food, her mind far away, but Anna ate with relish. The vegetables and stewed apples were especially delicious, probably because they had been seasoned with pork. Between bites, Anna would glance occasionally toward the stranger who was her mother-in-law, sympathizing with her, yet feeling inadequate because she knew of nothing she could say that would ease the worry of her companion. Maud DeVoss was a tall, slender woman with a gaunt but handsome face. Her nose was straight as a rifle barrel, the kind of nose her son had had. Anna had discovered in the last four days that the older woman could be talkative and pleasant company occasionally, but not today.

They left town, heading southwestward past green slopes with red wounds in them where bulldozers had gouged out bays for tourist shops and apartment houses. The highway was a two-lane strip of asphalt which climbed a gradual rise and then dropped steeply for a mile, passing chalets, an asphalt plant, and a campground, as it blacksnaked its way downward into a meandering valley. Anna’s gaze kept straying from the road, picking out rock formations, cone-shaped hills, and narrow valleys wandering away to the left and right. The Appalachians here were not blue, a darkling land, as the Cherokees had called them, but flaming green, an overwhelming green which soothed her and shut her away from the rush of the world she had left that morning.

She was startled when Mrs. DeVoss spoke. “You turn right just beyond that bridge ahead.”

But she had already moved her foot to brake. She had known where to turn. Pete had brought her along this route more than once, in their conversations, although they had never found time to come here together. Never would find— She cut the thought short, like slicing a taut cord.

They followed the left bank of a swift little river for about two miles, most of the time beneath a dense canopy of trees. The narrow, winding strip of asphalt probably followed an old wagon road, which followed an older Indian trail, which in turn followed an even older buffalo trail. Pete had once told her that many of the mountain roads followed old animal trails, with the original curves and stream crossings still in them.

Mrs. DeVoss spoke again after they left the tunnel of trees and approached a huge, two-story building on the right, dark with age. There was a narrow little porch, two rusting gas pumps like two strangers standing close together for companionship, and a dilapidated farm wagon to one side, the mules hitched to it testing the sound of the approaching car with long ears swinging from side to side like hairy antennae. Anna could see faded signs on the side of the building: Peach Snuff, Rumford Baking Powder, B. C. Headache Powders, and Nehi Grape.

“Thats Sparr’s Store,’ Maud DeVoss said. “That’s where the community trade and get their mail.”

Anna glanced at her. The sadness had left her face briefly and was replaced by a pensive tranquility. She turned her head to study the old building as they moved past it. Anna wondered whether she was remembering the many times she had visited the store with her late husband or if she was recalling some specific occasion that had remained a pleasant memory.

Half a mile beyond the store, she veered to the left onto a dirt road, crossed a narrow, low-water bridge spanning the river, an iron grill cattle bridge beyond, and shifted to third, climbing at an angle to the right, the spur of the ridge. A one-strand electric fence ran along the base of the slope, which had been stamped into countless parallel terraces by the feet of generations of grazing cattle.

“That stream is the Watauga River,” Mrs. De- Voss muttered, almost to herself, it seemed. “It empties indirectly into the Gulf of Mexico.”

Anna glanced toward her again but said nothing. She followed a sharp curve back to the left, then turned to the right, climbing the gently rising slope. To her left, fifty yards away, a forest began in a straight line and stretched away toward the base of the ridge, to rise again in the distance, covering a higher knoll. Up ahead, the black shingled roof of a farmhouse came into view, beyond which she could see the tin roof of a barn and other outbuildings. Several Black Angus and white-faced cattle grazed off to her right, two of them raising their heads to stare indifferently at the approaching car, chewing slowly.

“That’s the Webber place,” Mrs. DeVoss said, pointing. “They own all the land around here.” She paused, thoughtful. “Except, of course, the lots for the three summer places back in the woods.”

A road branched off to the left, straight into the forest, and Anna could see the roof of an A-frame cabin with a glass front, partly concealed by trees. A short distance beyond, she turned left into a second road. She could not see the DeVoss chalet until she had passed a stand of young white pines and was suddenly in the yard, if the place could be said to have a yard. The drive ended in a loop circling tall oaks and poplars near the front door, four short parking bays perpendicular to the house front. Anna pulled into the one nearest the front steps and switched off the engine.

For several seconds she and the older woman sat in silence, as Anna studied the building. It was built of hewn logs, black with age, logs, Pete had once told her, that Dr. DeVoss had obtained from an old barn some native had sold him. The architecture was rectangular, the steep roof covered with cedar shakes, the eaves at right angles to the driveway. A stone chimney was built against the near side of the cabin, a door to the right of it and a window to the left. Even the cement chinking between the logs seemed darkened by time, with here and there patches of moss or lichen splotching it like creeping blight.

“Well, this is Greenworld.” Mrs. DeVoss looked at her and smiled. “How do you like it?”

Anna stared straight ahead. She tried to visualize a young Pete DeVoss, barefoot and in shorts, brown as an Indian, shinnying up the trees or scurrying away among them. “It’s lovely,” she said softly. “It’s—it’s out of my world. It’s wonderful.”

When Mrs. DeVoss reached for the handle of the door, Anna opened her own. She unfolded from the deep bucket seat and towered above the top of the Porsche. Her knees cracked, loud in the silent forest. There was a catch in her back. She braced her hand against the top of the car, her balance awry. The long ride had molded her into one position too long. A moment later, she hurried around the car. She opened the other door and grasped Mrs. DeVoss’s hand, helping her out and to her feet. The older woman tottered a moment, but quickly adjusted to standing.

Anna followed her up the hewn-log steps onto the deck of the chalet. By the time they had reached the door, Mrs. DeVoss had a bunch of keys in her hand and unlocked the door. Despite the light from several windows, Anna had to peer and blink rapidly, coming from the bright outer light into the gloom. She removed her sunglasses and looked about her. There was a slight taint of mustiness in the air, a closeness resulting from the fact that the cabin had been shut up for several months without ventilation, but the odor was not unpleasant. It gave her a feeling of nostalgia, a sense of old things long unused, which results in a gentle sadness.

On her left, dominating the front of the cabin, was a large stone fireplace with raised hearth and a stone mantel. Above it hung a painting framed with wormy chestnut. She studied it briefly. Several little men and women dressed like Pilgrims frolicked in a wood, one of their children riding a reddish-brown squirrel along a rotting log. Comfortable looking leather-padded chairs sat tranquilly in front of the fireplace, four of them, once black but now scarred and faded. They reminded Anna of old men drawn together for a quiet conversation, but momentarily silent. A black bearskin rug sprawled between the chairs and the hearth, the head snarling toward some unseen enemy across the room.

The right end of the cabin consisted of two bedrooms, a bathroom separating them. The rest of the interior was cathedral, including the fireplace and living area and the kitchen-dining area. The left end of the building contained a sink beneath double windows. There were an electric stove, a refrigerator, and a lazy-Susan table, with ladderback chairs marshaled around it. Between the living area and the far wall was a reading area, crowded bookcases lining the wall and rearing ceilingward between two windows. There was no radio, no television, not even a telephone that Anna could see.

“The master bedroom is the farther one there,” Mrs. DeVoss explained, as they crossed the oak floor. “You take it, since you'll probably be here longer than I will. It’s larger than the other, and the double bed will give you sprawling room.”

Anna stopped in front of the bathroom door. “No! No, don’t let’s do that. I don’t want to deprive you of comfort. I can switch rooms if you have to leave earlier.”

Mrs. DeVoss touched her lightly on the shoulder, smiling tiredly. “Don’t argue with me, child. I know what’s been going on inside you since we left

Arlington. At least I think I do. The room is yours. That settles it.”

Anna hesitated, but could think of no further argument. “All right, then.” She turned to the left, toward her bedroom. “You’re the boss.”

Inside, she stared about her. A huge fourposter bed sat in the far corner to her right, a patchwork quilt serving as a spread. Matching the bed, an antique dresser of red cherry stood against the wall close by to her left, and a matching chest of drawers reared upward on her right, beside the door. A Boston rocker with splint-bottom and back waited in the corner farther to her right, a reading lamp peering over the left shoulder of whatever ghost occupied it at the moment. At the right end of the cabin, double windows permitted a view of the gently rising slope of the ridge. A single window beside the bed looked out onto the back deck of the cabin.

She crossed the oval hooked rug, placed her right knee on the window seat, and raised the window beside the bed. Immediately, the room was filled with a lulling, liquid murmur from down the slope and to the right. She had known the waterfall would be there, but it caught her by surprise when it asserted itself on the silence. The window opened onto the screened sleeping deck, and beyond it, the slope fell gently through a maze of columns whose green tops reared from sight somewhere above the roof. Below the intrusion of the waterfall, Anna could vaguely hear the flutter of a stream over and around rocks somewhere in the woods farther down the slope.

“Besides, you can hear the falls better from this room.”

Anna whirled. Mrs. DeVoss stood just inside the door, a hand braced against the door facing. “I was already alone in a strange world,” Anna laughed. “You startled me.”

“The waterfall is an added blessing,” the older woman said. “It is a balm for sadness, although there’s something—something sad about the sound of it. You will go to sleep hearing it, and you will wake up hearing it, and it will be a calm voice assuring you everything will be all right.” Mrs. DeVoss was not looking at Anna. She was staring above the bed at a large photograph of a young man and woman in wedding clothing. “We spent every summer in this room for thirty-nine years,” she continued, “except part of one in Austria. I have been here forty-one—since the summer of 1933.”

“It—its a peaceful room,” Anna said, not knowing what else to say. “I’m sure PII enjoy it.”

Mrs. DeVoss turned and left the room quickly. Anna heard the bathroom door close, and she was left alone.

After Anna had carried their bags in, placing them in the respective bedrooms, Mrs. DeVoss still had not left the bathroom. Once Anna started to knock on the door, hesitated, then let her arm drop. Without any clear direction, she went out onto the back deck. She crossed it, thrust open the screen door and descended the steps. The straight boles of yellow pines and poplars towered upward, blotting out the sky, except for a swatch of blue here and there. A path led down the side of the ridge, but away from it the forest was almost clear of undergrowth. She could hear the gush of the waterfall even more clearly outside here, and the cool of the forest settled about her, denying the existence of an afternoon sun.

As she descended the meandering path, her sandals made soft swishing sounds now and then to break the silence of the forest. Ferns grew in isolated beds on both sides of the trail. A mossy boulder reared up suddenly in front of her. Rounding it, she reached the banks of the rushing stream ten feet beyond. The path crossed the creek on two stepping-stones and continued onward, but a tributary path traced the left bank, upstream. She followed it, her eyes on the splashing water, and reached the flowers before she knew they were there. When she raised her eyes suddenly, she stopped, her lips parted in surprise. A jungle of Rosebay rhododendron stretched away from the right bank, their long, leathery leaves gleaming like metal in the forest twilight. But they were overshadowed by thousands of pink flowers, round clumps of them, reaching out of sight and covering the surface of the shrubbery like a brilliant froth.

Anna had never seen rhododendron in bloom before. She stood there staring, a little-girl look of delight and surprise softening the fatigue about her mouth and eyes. Back of her seeing was a symphony of odors, none of which she could identify other than to suspect that they were a blend of gifts from the forest, just as was the gush of the waterfall, somewhere close by.

Anna was startled back to awareness when some kind of bird, perhaps a woodpecker, leaped from a tree behind her, its wings drumming the air as it darted off into the forest, uttering shrill cries. She turned and looked after it, then followed the path farther upstream, the waterfall growing louder with each step. The stream and path looped back to the left around a peninsula of rhododendron. She rounded it and suddenly there it was.

The brook leaped over the brim of a low granite escarpment and arched out, then plunged into a deep pool beneath, foaming like champagne. The drop was not more than ten or twelve feet, but the flashing white scimitar of water gave Anna the impression of a greater distance. The pool was surrounded by a flat crescent of granite which on her side slid gradually beneath the pool, climbing to a garden of moss adjacent to the woods.

Kicking off her sandals, she waded into the pool, but stopped ankle deep, at the utter coldness of the water. She squatted and ruffled her fingers along the surface, then stopped again to let it calm.

She studied her reflection, almost as clear as a mirror. Her face in the water was bracketed by her knees. She brought her knees together and tugged at the hem of her short skirt, a mother-induced gesture of modesty. A sudden flicker of motion caught her attention. Three feet away, two fish, probably brook trout, darted away from her, the shadow of one chasing the shadow of the other along the pebbled bottom.

Walking backward onto the rock, Anna sat down beside her sandals. The sun-warmed rock added a comfortable glow to her buttocks through her skirt. At that moment she noticed the butterflies—black and gold, yellow, pale blue and orange—hanging close to the falling water, rising and drifting downward on beating wings as though drinking the mist that hovered just above the falls. Butterfly Falls, that was what Pete had called them. Now she could see why. She lay back, her hands clasped beneath her head, and stared upward at the splotches of sky showing through the canopy of pines and spruce towering over her. She relaxed against the warm granite, her breathing long and slow. For the first time that day she was aware of how weary she really was.

Day before yesterday at Arlington Cemetery— today, seven long hours from Norfolk to Greenworld in Watauga County. She closed her eyes. Far away, her memory echoed rifle shots in unison and the mournful sound of TAPS. A flag was folded expertly, revealing the utilitarian shape of the vault it had covered. A colorful triangle of fabric was thrust into the hands of the young woman in the dark suit, shattering her brown study. She stared from the flag to the officer as though wondering what to do with it. Then the scene shuttled forward like a silent movie skipping frames, and the couple, the young woman and her older companion, were wading through the forest of white crosses, leaving the metal cubicle behind—the cubicle she was expected to believe held the decayed remains of the young buck she had once held in her arms. She had looked back once and had felt nothing, no rapport with broken bones and fabric. Although the military was sure—the identification was beyond doubt—Anna DeVoss had not felt that the remains of her mate were stored in that metal cubicle. Her mind had known and had accepted the obvious, but her heart could not believe. She herself had not seen the bones of Pete DeVoss. His boyish grin, his muscular body, after six years, were still too real for her to let go. The last notes of TAPS faded, faded, and the two women merged into the green hillside, disappearing.

Anna awakened suddenly, shivering. A chilly breeze swept across her, fluffing the hem of her skirt. In the distance she heard the roar of the plane hurtling earthward. She sprang to a seated position, staring about her. It was only the roar of the waterfall. Her heartbeat slowed. She could see little flecks of the sun through the pines to the west. She checked her wristwatch. It was after six. Buckling on her sandals, she got to her feet and returned down the stream, along the rocky path. Once, she glimpsed a little man in dark knickers and silver buckles on his shoes and wearing a Pilgrim hat, as he sat on a rock stroking a squirrel almost as large as himself. But when she squinted to get a better look, only the squirrel was visible. Or had it been the ghost that lived in her brain that had seen it, the ghost that sometimes talked to her?

Mrs. DeVoss, busy in the kitchen, looked at her curiously when she entered the cabin, but said nothing. Anna entered her room, removed her robe and mules from one of the open bags, and went into the bathroom. She took off her halter, skirt, and half-slip and was ready to shower. She stood for a long time letting the fine jets of water pepper her shoulders, back, and breasts. It felt so soothing, she almost went to sleep, standing with her hands braced against the shower walls. After a while she slid back the shower panel and began to towel herself, rubbing until the flesh of her arms and torso turned a healthy red. She stepped out onto the bath mat to dry her legs and was startled when she caught a sudden movement out of the sides of her eyes.

Anna whirled, towel covering her lower body, and had to laugh when she saw the tall young woman staring at her with open mouth, out of the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. She stopped, finishing up first one foot, then the other, as she watched her movements in the mirror. She walked to within a couple of feet of the door and studied her reflection critically. At five feet, nine, she appeared taller than she actually was because she was so slender. But her hips were feminine and the slight dome of her belly did not require a girdle. There was no sign she had ever worn a bathing suit. She did not tan easily and had never been a fanatic about the fad, although she had spent countless sunny days at Virginia Beach over the years. She looked at her breasts, cupping her right hand to lift the right one slightly and feel it for any suspicious lump. They were not overly large and were as white as her belly.

Anna studied her face. At twenty-four, it was still young and pretty, except for dark shadows under the light blue eyes—under the gray eyes. At the moment they were gray, reflecting the moroseness that had lived inside her for the last several days. When she smiled suddenly—Pete had always accused her of grinning like a school kid—her eyes turned light blue. Her brown hair, with highlights of gold, was cut in a shag, and her nose was small and neat. She had learned long ago that it was her mouth that men noticed first. Her lips were full and sensuous, her lower lip slightly fuller than her upper. Her thick black brows seemed devised to steal the attention from her mouth.

Donning the robe and mules, she joined Mrs. DeVoss at the lazy-Susan table where they ate a dinner her mother-in-law had prepared from cans. The meal passed mostly in silence, and Anna washed the dishes afterwards while Mrs. DeVoss bathed. It was still light outside when Anna toid her companion good night and entered her bedroom, closing the door. She sat for a while, trying to read a short story from a collection she had taken from the bookcase, but the words kept blurring and running across the page like speckled amoebae under a microscope. Above the muted buzz and tinkle of nocturnal insects, the quiet roar of the waterfall intruded on her awareness.

Twilight had just begun to sift down through the canopy of foliage sheltering the cabin when Anna drew back the covers, removed her robe, and stretched out on the bed. She could smell the faint mustiness of the bed covers, unused for a year, and could feel a gentle wave of air enter the open window and sweep across her body, stirring her hair, cooling her. God, but she was weary! She let her muscles relax and collapsed inward into herself, breathing evenly. The firm mattress was comfortable, sustaining her weight with authority. Her chest rose and fell. Her mind was a huge house with many lighted windows. Someone was running through the house from room to room switching off the lights. Finally, only two lights were left, then one. She did not know when that light was turned off. The house remained dark, but some area of her mind was aware that she became chilly during the night, arousing her defenses enough so that she covered herself with a sheet and blanket, leaving the patchwork quilt thrown aside.

Chapter II

She was back at UNC, and a neighbor was calling her, waking her for her first class. Bess must be outside the apartment calling me through the window, her mind reasoned, because her voice is muted. No, it could not be Bess. It’s a man’s voice. It’s Pete calling me. He’s back from a flight, back from Vietnam, back from—No! Not that word. But it had to be Pete. What other man would call her from her sleep?

Anna sat up in bed, her hands leaping to cover her ears, her eyes wide with fear. Then she calmed, orienting herself. She tilted her head to listen. There came another series of loud knocks on the front door, followed by silence. Then a man’s voice, muffled by the intervening doors and walls, called again. “Maud! Maud! Hey, Maud, wake up, please ma’am!”

Slipping to the floor, Anna seized her robe, flung it around her, tying the sash with fingers still half asleep, and opened her bedroom door. She paused in the doorway, uncertain, then hurried across the cabin on her bare feet toward the front of the house.

She opened the front door and stared at Jesus Christ, Superstar, who stood two feet away, fist raised to knock again. The first object to catch her attention was the mop of golden kinky hair and the next was the cropped, kinky beard, parted at the center of the chin like a Spartan warrior’s. The surprised eyes stared back at her, a flecked amber. The narrow mask of face between the mustache and hair was peppered with freckles, as were the upraised fist and forearm.

Why she should have been surprised at the appearance of a stranger she could not say, but surprise was chiefly what she felt at the moment. “Yes, what could I do for you?” she demanded.

For a few seconds longer he stared at her face, then let his eyes shift to include the rest of her. “I need to see Maud,” he said. “I have a message for her.”

“Maude” Anna stared at him, her mind blank. “Oh, yes, you mean Mrs. DeVoss,” she said, suddenly understanding.

For a moment the man appeared flustered. “Yes, Mrs. DeVoss.” His shallow little laugh might have been a slight apology or a punctuation sound. “I’ve always called her Maud. Known her since I was a kid.”

Anna could not have guessed his age with a gun to her head. He wore faded, patched jeans, the kind a beatnik might wear—or a farmer—a faded plaid shirt, and ragged sneakers without socks.

They eyed each other a moment longer in silence. Then the young man took a step backward, retreating.

“I’m Jay Webber,” he explained, his solemn frown proof of identification. “We own the farm.” He waved his arms to include the surrounding world, then abandoned it, letting it fall.

“Oh, yes!” she said. “Maud—Mrs. DeVoss is still asleep. IIl get her.”

She left him standing on the deck and hurried toward Mrs. DeVoss’s bedroom door. But before she reached it, Maud DeVoss appeared, a pink robe about her.