TWENTY-TWO

 

Feeling a little guilty about missing family night at my aunt and uncle’s club, I agreed to go shopping with Aunt Monica in Bradford, the county seat. I’d rather have spent the morning climbing onto Sasha and riding like the wind. I’d become addicted to horseback riding. I think riding provides the same endorphin high runners crave. Missing just one morning’s ride left me with withdrawal pains. Luke had gone to the hospital to see Abe, and Jeff would be hours at his piano lesson. I could have used the alone-time to commune with my beloved horse, but my aunt appeared so eager for my company. I didn’t have the heart to turn her down.

We strolled through shops both quaint and trendy. Aunt Monica insisted on buying me some outrageously overpriced earrings and a silk scarf. The scarf I’d probably hand over to Mom someday, but I had to admit the dangly earrings were as fun as they were smart. I thanked her enthusiastically and, over a finger-food lunch at La Duchess Bakery, I modeled them for her.

Aunt Monica patted her mouth delicately with the lacy, linen napkin. “Those earrings are so you, Ashby. They bring out the highlights in your eyes.” She placed her napkin beside her plate. “Now, I want to share a confidence.”

I could not help remembering our last lunch date when she’d told me about her stuttering trauma and about my uncle’s “dark side,” I believe she called it, generated by his mother’s untimely death. Oh, Lord. What now? I thought. I never knew what to expect from my aunt, especially when we were away from the constraining mood and atmosphere of Overhome. Swallowing my inclination to protest, I smiled and tilted my head as a signal for her to begin.

“I have already told you, Ashby, how grateful I am for your bringing out the best in Jefferson. I was so afraid he would turn into the self-centered, spoiled, only-child with no sense of family love and values.”

“I-I don’t think…” I started to object, but she put up a hand to stop me.

“No, no. Let me go on. He has positively blossomed under your guidance this summer. He has become a happy, self-sufficient, normal little boy. You already know how I feel about that.” She put her hand on my arm and gave it a squeeze. “But there has been a totally unexpected bonus from your stay at Overhome. I have only just begun to realize it myself.” Shaking her head, as if with disbelief, she continued. “It’s Hunter. He has become so much more attentive, so attuned to Jefferson, to me, to family in general. You know, though he willingly spends quality time with Jefferson, I always had the feeling Hunter was humoring me, condescending to spend any time on what he considers my whims. It was as if he and Jefferson and I were three separate entities with nothing to connect us. Now, why, it was his idea to attend family night at the club. He has been talking about all of us spending a day at the Salem Fair together, and he has begun plans for a real family vacation this fall. Ashby, we have never had a trip away from Overhome, as a family, for more than a few days. Having you here has stirred a latent need in Hunter, triggered, I believe, his realization that family is all we have to remember us when we are gone.” She beamed with pleasure.

I tried to look like I shared Monica’s enthusiasm, but I had the uncomfortable feeling she was making way too much of my uncle’s so-called metamorphosis. She so wanted him to be warm and loving to her, to pay attention to her emotional needs, that she was eager to count any spark on his part as the kindling to a fire.

“Ashby, can you believe it? Hunter is now deep into researching an Overton genealogy. Oh, he has always been a history buff, but when it came to his own mother and father and brothers, he refused to talk about them, avoided any mention of the family’s past, all a part of that childhood trauma over his mother’s death, I suppose. Now, it seems he cannot get enough of poring over their papers and journals. Last night he got out a rubbing of the Overton gravestones he and Jefferson did some years ago. He is like a man possessed, determined to unearth every nuance about the family tree. He is spending hours in his study.”

This revelation made me sit up and take notice. I gathered my wits about me before asking, as casually as possible, “Did you say Uncle Hunter has been poring over family journals?”

“Why, yes. A short while ago, I came upon his mother’s memoirs quite by accident. I was looking for an old photo when I discovered Lenore’s diary. It was tucked back in the corner of an ancient wardrobe in the keeping room, as though someone wanted to hide it. When I showed Hunter my find, he was quite excited. Come to think of it, that was when he began to take interest in working on a genealogy.”

The lost diary Miss Emma had been lamenting. Lenore’s diary. I wondered what Miss Emma would have to say about it, and how it had come to rest, hidden in the keeping room. I couldn’t wait to tell her.

Suddenly, Monica looked beyond me and waved at a smartly-dressed woman. “Oh, hi, Bitsy. How nice to see you here.” My aunt beckoned her friend to our table.

“Ashby, this is Bitsy Coleman. She and her family belong to our club at the lake.”

“Hello, Ashby.” Bitsy shook my hand. “You’re Monica’s niece, I believe.”

“Yes. Nice to meet you.”

She looked at my aunt. “Oh, why don’t you and Ashby come with me, Monica? There’s a marvelous sale at the antique shop just a block away.”

Aunt Monica cocked her head at me. “Ashby? Are you interested?”

“Thanks, Aunt Monica, Mrs. Coleman, but, actually, I would love to check out the County Historical Society. We walked past it before lunch.”

“My family!” Monica looked at her friend with a toss of her head. “They’re all obsessed with history.” She turned to me. “Why don’t you visit the Historical Society while Bitsy and I are antique shopping? We’ll come collect you when we finish.”

“That’d be great, Aunt Monica. Thanks.” It was the moment I had been hoping for. Bitsy Coleman was a godsend.

Once I stepped inside the reference room, I didn’t waste any time, but went straight for the files about the building of the dam. I’d been doing a lot of thinking about Rosabelle’s FREE message, and something my aunt had just told me gave me an idea. I hoped I’d find something here to help me out.

I sorted through several files before I found what I wanted: the graves. An old newspaper clipping revealed that it took two years to find all of the graves located in the valleys to be flooded to create Moore Mountain Lake. Power company employees were given a map showing where the project would be built and were instructed to locate any and all graves. They talked with residents and churches for leads and spent a lot of time hacking through honeysuckle vines and other weeds to find headstones. The graves had to be found and the kinfolks located to see if they wanted their ancestors’ remains to be dug up and re-buried. Otherwise, the graves would be forever submerged in very deep water.

The certified cemeteries were easy, according to one press release. It was the private graveyards and the slave graves that officials had to work to locate. In total, they pinpointed 78 individual cemeteries, with 1,371 graves. No grave could be moved without authorization. However, if the family wanted the graves left in place, they had to sign an agreement to that effect. Each re-location was documented with the name of the dead, the original burial site, and the re-interment site. The catalogue, the article noted, is available for genealogy research.

I closed the file. How very interesting. I approached the check-out desk and spoke to the attendant. “I’m, um, doing a genealogy. Can you tell me where I might find the catalogue of grave removals and re-interment done during the building of the dam at Moore Mountain Lake?”

The middle-aged man gave me a curious look. “Must be a run on genealogies.” He smiled. “You’re the second person to ask for that catalogue this week.” He disappeared for a moment, then handed me a bound volume. “This is for reference only. It can’t be checked out, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, I’m just going to make a few notes here. If I can find what I’m looking for, that is.”

“Good luck.”

Checking my watch, I gave a silent plea for the antique shoppers to take their time, then I dived into the data. It did not take long to actualize what I’d begun to suspect. The listings for grave removals and re-burials from Overhome were quite lengthy and detailed; the power company had done a thorough job. I found many names I’d come to know—Emilie and Francis Overton, Johbe and Robert, and Angelina Elisabeth Overton. But, there was not a word about the slave graves. No Lulu. Nothing about Micah and Mary mentioned in Angelina’s diary. When I turned to the documentation section in the back of the catalogue, there was a copy of the signed agreement authorizing the power company to leave all the slave graves on the Overhome property where they were, undisturbed. The agreement was signed by Thomas Overton. Those graves would all be at the bottom of the lake.

And one more thing—nowhere was there any mention of a gravesite for Rosabelle O’Connor.

* * * *

 

As soon as my aunt and I returned, I went looking for Miss Emma, but she was nowhere to be found. She must have gone to town for groceries with one of the hired hands. I’d have to catch her later when we could be alone. I watched Jeff burst through the door, charged with pent-up energy.

“Yuck! I hate piano theory!” he growled. “My teacher makes us listen to classical music. It sucks, Ashby. Long and boring and deary.”

“Don’t you mean dreary?” I laughed. “And watch your language.”

“Even the girls were itchin’ to leave.”

“What say we saddle up the horses? I’ve been wanting a ride myself.”

His face brightened immediately. “All right!” He bolted down the hall toward his room.

“Change into long pants and boots, Jefferson,” his mother said as she came out from the library. “And remember to wear your riding helmet.”

Unexpectedly, Hunter appeared in the hall. He was dressed in shorts and a polo shirt and a golf hat. “What say we go out on the boat, all of us. Make it a family outing. It’s a beautiful lake day. Monica, my dear, we can shelter you under the Bimini top, if you’re worried about sun damage.”

My aunt melted under her husband’s suggestion. “Oh, my, Hunter. What a wonderful idea. Give us time to lather up with sunscreen and collect some beach towels.” She flashed me an I-told-you-so look. “Ashby? Jefferson? Are you game for an afternoon on the lake?”

Jeff stopped in mid-flight. “Sure, Mom.” He looked at his father. “We can ski, right, Dad?”

“Of course,” Uncle Hunter said. “Ashby?”

“Count me in,” I said. To my horse I made a vow, “Sasha, I’ll get to you later. I will get to you, I promise.”

* * * *

 

By the time we came off the lake, the sun had slipped below the mountain, streaking the sky with flamingo feathers of light. While my aunt and uncle whisked Jeff away to the house, I had to decide whether to hunt down Miss Emma to talk about Aunt Monica’s discovery of Lenore’s diary or to grab the last few daylight moments for a quick run on Sasha. It was not much of a contest, as emotion won out over logic, and I changed into jeans and bolted for the stable. Sasha greeted me with knickers and whinnies. “Yes, yes, I know dear Sasha,” I crooned, stroking his muzzle. “You want a canter as much as I do, don’t you?” He whinnied in what I was sure was complete understanding.

Saddling Sasha quickly in the growing dusk, I thrust my foot into the stirrup and flung my leg over my horse’s back, giving him a nudge and a cluck. With a snort and a jerk of his head, Sasha took off. We rode without stopping, cutting a path through the soft, heavy Southern air, horse and rider as in tune with each other as the creek and the trees that whistled past, Sasha and I, rolling like the hills around us in a rhythm as mesmerizing as a poem. I lost track of time and place. My horse and I were united, breathing one breath, living one moment. When, at last, Sasha slowed to a trot, I realized the day had turned to night and that I did not have the slightest idea where we were.

Reining Sasha in, I peered in all directions, trying to form a sense of place. A darkening cloud cover blurred the line between trees and sky. I listened for the gurgle of the creek, but the night air was as still and thick as blackstrap molasses. Sasha snorted, asking me to lead the way, but I held the reins tight, looking for a signpost of some kind. I don’t know how long we stood until I saw it, a spark of light. A flare? A flashlight? No bigger than a pinpoint, the light flickered, died, and reappeared.

Turning Sasha, I followed the bobbing light. On and off. On, off. Hypnotized, I pressed my horse forward. The glowing light shifted slowly, glancing off one shadowy branch after another in a random pattern. Sasha stumbled occasionally over the uneven incline of the path, but I urged him on, pressing my legs against his barrel, in pursuit of the elusive firefly light. Sensing only that we had strayed far from the beaten path, I found myself ducking under ever lower-hanging branches that seemed to grab at me with gnarled fingers as the light played its game, flaring to my left, then to the right. I felt myself go dizzy as I sensed we were going in circles.

I thought I heard a shuffling in the underbrush, but when Sasha stopped, so did the sound. On auto-pilot now, I pressed on, following the light that was like a laser pointing haphazard directions on a map. In the opaque velvet of the forest night, I had completely lost my way. At length, I realized I was shivering, whether with cold or fright or anticipation, I could not say. A damp chill had descended like a fog, bringing me, at last, to my senses.

“Ashby, you are a moron! You’re so fixated on Rosabelle and her candles, you’ve lost your marbles,” I said to my horse. Forget the Bronte sisters and their foggy moors. I mean, this setting was more like the one in “The Hound of the Baskervilles” by Sherlock Holmes. And this guiding light was not Rosabelle’s doing. There was no music, no sweet Afton, no warm, protective aura of her presence. Now I was lost in a black tangle. Suddenly, Sasha stumbled. I sensed a movement just ahead when, without warning, Sasha shied, then reared on his hind legs. Clutching at the reins and then the saddle, I couldn’t stop my swift slide to the ground. I landed with such a thud it jarred my teeth. Rolling away from Sasha’s flailing hooves, I sat up and came to my knees, reaching for Sasha’s reins. Something hard and sharp struck me from behind. Everything went black.