THE NEXT MORNING, Annie found her grandmother in the kitchen, bent over the oven. Beulah wore a cotton work dress with a faded blue apron tied around the waist and her “sensible shoes,” as she called the particular brand of flats.
“Grandma, do you know a lady named Vesta Givens?”
“Sure do,” Beulah said, standing and turning to face her.
“Tom Childress suggested I see her. He said she knows about history in the area, particularly related to the old stone house.”
Beulah rolled her sleeves up past her elbow and began working dough for a pie crust. “Vesta’s bound to be in her nineties now. Her people were from just over the hill behind the May Family Cemetery.”
“She’s in the assisted-living section of Richwood Manor. I think I’ll drive over there this morning, unless you need me for something. Later, I’m meeting another guy who might be able to work on the stone house for less than the other bids. Tom recommended him.”
“Give Vesta my regards,” Beulah said.
***
Richwood Manor was a red brick building that sat atop a leveled hill with a smattering of young trees. It was on the highway to Rutherford, just beyond the Somerville city limits. Annie imagined the planners selected the site for easy access to both communities since no such place existed in Rutherford.
There were two wings of Richwood Manor: one side was a nursing home facility for residents who needed more care; the other was for assisted living for those desiring more independence.
When she inquired about Vesta, the silver-haired woman at the reception desk looked at her watch. “This time of day, she is likely in the common room.”
“Thank you,” Annie said and headed in the direction she pointed. If she were honest with herself, a sense of dread accompanied the assignment. In her few experiences, nursing homes were filled with the heavy smell of urine, the sad sight of residents in various states of decline, and the lack of adequate staff.
Richwood, or at least the assisted-living side, seemed cheery and clean. Skylights invited natural light and the interior colors were warm instead of the cool blues and greens so long associated with institutions. It smelled fresh, as if the windows and doors were open, allowing the autumn breeze to cleanse the hard smells of aging.
In the common room, residents sat on couches and chairs, some watching television, some playing cards, and some reading magazines. A young woman shelved books on a far wall and Annie approached her.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I’m looking for Vesta Givens.”
“She’s right there,” the worker pointed to the living area, but there were nearly ten ladies sitting around.
“Which one is she?”
“Well, she’s the only one reading Tolstoy. And, she’s the only black lady in the room right now.” The girl smiled at Annie.
“Tolstoy?” she said.
The girl nodded and raised her eyebrows.
She made her way over to the woman who sat with her back straight, despite the confines of the wheelchair. “Mrs. Givens?”
Bright almond eyes looked back at her through crystal clean glasses.
“I never married, so it’s still Miss Givens.” She shut the book and placed it in her lap.
“Anna Karenina … Tragic story,” Annie said, and pointed to the book.
“Yes. I keep reading it, hoping she will not do it. But she always does.”
“I’m Annie Taylor.”
“Taylor,” Miss Givens said, and closed her eyes. “Ah, yes. We had a state legislator by that name. He got into a bit of trouble as I recall.”
“My father’s uncle, but please don’t hold it against me.”
After ten years in New York City, Annie had nearly forgotten how people in small towns used last names to connect. And the Taylor name wasn’t associated with good things in Somerville.
Miss Givens smiled. “I don’t make judgments. It does give us perspective to see the whole. Are you here to see me? Or are you interested in talking about the Russians? I would love to have someone with whom I could discuss literature.”
Annie smiled. “I have read The Brothers Karamazov, but that and Anna Karenina are the extent of my knowledge.”
“It’s a lovely start,” she said. “However, I think you are here on another matter?”
“Tom Childress gave me your name,” she said.
Miss Givens smiled. “A good man. Very bright. He was one of our best students.”
“You’re a teacher?”
“I was the Somerville High School librarian. After integration, of course. Before, I was the librarian at the Bonaparte School.”
“Tom says you are the most knowledgeable person about history in the area.”
“Maybe the most knowledgeable still alive,” Miss Givens laughed, a high tinkling sound like delicate crystal clinking together. “There were others, but they’re all in the town cemetery now.”
“I’m interested in learning anything you might know about the old stone house, the one on Gibson’s Creek Road. We had a fire a few weeks back, and it badly damaged an upstairs room. The water used to put out the fire did even more damage. If we know the history, it might help us save it.”
“You’re a May?”
“Yes. My grandmother is Beulah Campbell. She was a May.”
“I know it well. What do you want to know?”
“I’ve heard it might be the first stone house built in Kentucky. If we can prove it with historical documents, a grant is possible,” Annie said. “I was hoping you could give me direction.”
Miss Givens sighed. “Call me Vesta. You know, when someone offers you his or her first name it’s a gift. These days we’re all so informal, we use someone’s first name without allowing them to offer it to us.”
“And you can call me Annie.” She liked this woman even more.
“I’ve always heard it was the first stone house in Kentucky. Oral tradition is not likely to be taken well on a grant application. There are the Draper papers, although I don’t remember seeing much related to a house, unless it was in a deposition, so I don’t think I would spend time there. Let me think,” Vesta said, tapping her finger on the arm of the wheelchair.
Annie tried to envision Vesta behind a reference desk in a library or teaching a class.
“There are diaries of early pioneers. Oh, that’s it,” she looked at Annie, her eyes shining. “Joseph Crouch wrote extensive letters back home to his family in the East. Through those he chronicled the early frontier in this area. That’s where we should start.”
“Where are the letters?” Annie asked.
“The Kentucky History Center, not far from the state capital building in Frankfort. You’ll be looking at copies of course, probably on microfilm.”
Annie scribbled the name down.
“If you come up empty handed, let me know and we’ll try another route,” Vesta said, looking at her over the glasses.
“Thank you,” Annie said, grasping Vesta’s arm. “This helps so much.”
“Come back and let me know how it’s going.”
Annie stood. “You can count on it.”
***
Plunking over the plank bridge crossing Gibson’s Creek, Annie parked her grandfather’s old farm truck under the shade tree next to the old stone house. Every time she saw the house now, Annie was surprised by its condition. It’s like what Vesta thought reading Anna Karenina, she thought. The ending always turns out the same, and the reader always hopes for something different.
In the same way, she almost expected to see the old house as it was before the fire.
When Annie got out of the truck, a cool breeze blew, hinting at cooler weather to come, and a reminder that time to save the house was running short.
While she waited on Jerry Baker to arrive, Annie walked around behind the house and saw where Jake and Joe Gibson had put up a new fence to keep the cows from tromping into the creek from the adjoining pasture. Jake was intent on cleaning up the creek so the water quality would improve.
Sunlight filtered through the leaves on the bank of Gibson’s Creek, and as she stood there enjoying the peaceful moment, Annie remembered when she and Jake were children. They were playing in the creek, catching tadpoles and skipping rocks, when a summer storm blew up. Her mother called from the back door, but they were just about to catch the biggest tadpole they had seen all day. When her mother called again, this time using her whole name, Annie May Taylor, and even Jake’s whole name, Jacob Willis Wilder, Jake grabbed her by the hand and pulled her up the bank. They ran into the yard, laughing, until they reached the threshold of the old stone house. Lightning bolted from the sky and struck a tree on the creek bank, where they had been only seconds before, splitting it in two. Jake’s blue eyes were wide, and he had stopped laughing. Annie had swallowed hard. Her mother was angry.
“Annie May, when I call you to come in, I mean right now!” Dark shadows appeared heavy under her mother’s intense and angry eyes. Her frail hands reached for Annie’s shoulders and shook them before she pulled her into the hallway.
“I’m sorry, Mama. We were just playin’.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Taylor,” Jake added.
It was unlike her mother to be so harsh. Her mother was frightened and now, as an adult looking back, she knew the fear had run much deeper than an eleven-year-old could comprehend.
“You two just sit quiet in the living room until this is over,” she said, a trembling finger suspended in mid-air. Annie and Jake had gone to the living room, meek as lambs, and talked quietly until the storm passed. It was the last summer in the old stone house, the summer before her mother’s diagnosis.
***
The slam of a car door jarred her from the past and she turned to see a shiny white truck. A sixty-something-year-old man with pressed pants and a starched shirt smiled a greeting. Jerry Baker, she assumed, but she had pictured him in blue jeans, cotton work shirt and redwings. Instead, he looked like a banker. She smiled and extended her hand.
“Thanks for coming.”
“Nice to meet you,” Jerry said, in a twang that hinted of a mountain heritage. “Let’s see what you got here,” he said, and looked up at the damaged house. “I’ll just be taking some notes while I look around.” He pulled a clipboard with a legal pad attached out of the cab of his truck.
Jerry stepped into the suffocating stench of smoke and ashes. They walked through the two downstairs rooms original to the house, and then the kitchen and bath, which had been added later. Upstairs, they first looked at the room untouched by the fire and then made their way to the damaged room. Charred ceiling beams went to nearly nothing near the chimney. Annie imagined the flame from the candle in the window touching the curtains and setting them ablaze. Walls were blackened and the wood floor was bowed in places from the water damage.
“Pretty bad, huh?” she said. Jerry nodded and wrote notes on the note pad. When he finished, he looked up and smiled.
“Why don’t we go outside where it smells a little better?”
They were quickly refreshed by the clear blue skies and crisp air. Jerry lowered the tailgate on his truck and laid his clipboard on the makeshift desk.
“We’ll need to remove sheetrock and plaster. The insulation needs to come out to expose the structure and make sure everything is okay underneath. We need access to everything in order to kill the smoky smell. Then we’ll need to check the stones and make sure the fire didn’t loosen the mortar joints,” he said. “I can do the carpentry and stonework. I’ll need to hire out an electrician and a plumber. What about the kitchen and bath? Usually folks want to upgrade at a time like this.”
“Not at this point. We’re trying to keep the bid as low as possible,” she said.
“I like to use materials from the local lumber supply. You might save a bit from the big box companies, but you’ll use it up in running back and forth.”
“We agree with that. I was wondering if you could bid the job in parts with the first one focusing on the roof and windows, whatever we need to do to keep it sound and then outline what we need to make it livable.”
“Sure. We’ll bid what it takes to get it in the dry. The more specialized work like plumbing, electrical can go in phase two. We can add carpentry and all the finish work in the third section. You decide how much you want to do,” he said.
After Jerry gave a promise to mail his bid in a few days, he got in his truck and drove away. She watched him go and then went back inside the house to examine the downstairs kitchen and bath. Annie had not thought of upgrading. Now she saw the Formica countertops were in bad condition. The linoleum on the kitchen and bathroom floors buckled. All the appliances needed to be replaced. Her spirits sank.
Another car door slammed and she went to the front window. A man was standing next to a gray Tahoe and staring up at the house.
“Hello, can I help you?” she said, stepping out of the front door.
The man had a wide mouth and a hawk-like face with the largest teeth she had ever seen.
“Randy Wilson,” he said, extending his hand. “Fine Architectural Salvage. Are you the owner?”
“Annie Taylor,” she said, feeling herself bristle. “My grandmother is the owner.”
“I believe her neighbor, Betty Gibson, called and asked me to come over and take a look at the house and give an estimate of what I could buy from you good folks. Mind?” He pointed toward the door.
Annie nodded and followed him inside, feeling the anger rise up like hot lava. Betty Gibson.
“Ah, real nice mantle. I could place that tomorrow,” Randy said, moving his hand along the wood. “And these poplar floors, look how wide the boards are; you don’t get that these days,” he said, and squatted down to examine the wood. A childish urge to kick the seat of his khaki trousers washed over her.
“I’ll wait outside for you,” she said, and left before she acted on the desire.
Next to her grandfather’s old truck, she rubbed her temples, closed her eyes, and leaned against the metal for support. The house meant nothing to him. It was all just wood, fine carpentry, and dollar signs.
In a few minutes Randy Wilson came out the front door grinning like an old rat in a corncrib.
“Real nice. I’ll write up the estimate. What’s the address?” he said, and pulled out his note pad.
Annie hesitated and then gave him Evelyn’s address. It would only delay things a day or two if she was lucky, but she needed every single minute.