Twenty-eight

The next morning, more contemporary notes poured from the iPod in Alex Carter’s car. The songs comprised her special going-to-court playlist, ninety minutes of music that started with the Rolling Stones, traversed through Kate Bush and Duran Duran, and culminated with Bob Wills and his Texas Playboys.

As the music blared, Jonathan Walkingstick sat stiffly in the passenger seat, thinking how differently Mary prepared for court. With her, it was mostly silence—hours of pouring over case law or gazing at a computer screen. Her breaks consisted of either long, solitary walks in the woods, or fierce tennis matches with Ginger Malloy. If she ever listened to music, he’d never heard it.

“You okay?” asked Alex, turning down some song he remembered from high school.

“Yeah.” Okay covered it, he thought. Not great, but okay.

“Did you get any sleep last night?”

“Enough,” he said. Lily had slept well. He’d dozed in frustrating increments, waking up every fifteen minutes. At four a.m. he’d given up and gotten up, brewing a pot of in-room coffee while he watched the sun rise over the parking lot of the Holiday Inn.

“Lily’s had a big time these last ten days,” said Alex. “Riding Butterbean, playing with my boys.”

Jonathan smiled. They’d both had fun at Alex’s little forty-acre ranch, but Lily had truly blossomed. She’d learned how to ride a pony, played soccer with Alex’s sons. Her laugh started coming easily again and the tightness around her mouth relaxed. Still, not once had he heard the child speak Mary’s name.

“Has she said anything to you about Mary?” he asked, wondering if Lily might have shared her thoughts more easily with a woman.

“Not a word,” said Alex. “How about you?”

He shook his head. “It’s like she doesn’t acknowledge Mary’s existence anymore.”

“Well, Ailene Pace said Lily still needed help. Probably you guys should get some counseling when you get back home.”

He thought of home. It now seemed as distant as Shangri-La. “You don’t think they’ll make Lily testify, do you?”

“Probably not.”

He sat back in the seat, his thoughts returning to Mary. He’d known, since he first signed the contract for that duplex, that he was going down the wrong path. But he’d seen the look in Fred Moon’s eyes, the smirk on his face: you took my daughter, so now I’m going to take yours. Then, the lawsuit had come and he’d gone farther down that path, afraid to tell Mary what he’d done, afraid she would accuse him of deceit. Afraid, ultimately, of her looking at him without the love that he’d known since they were kids. He suddenly felt such a heaviness in his chest that he turned to Alex.

“So you think we’ll do okay?”

“I feel better about this than I did ten days ago,” she said, sipping her cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee. “Aileen will testify that Lily is a healthy child whose current emotional difficulties were brought on by her recent stay with the Moons. Plus I’ve got a bunch of old DUI charges that don’t exactly make Fred and Dulcy look like model grandparents.”

“What about the Mary-Ruth thing?”

She shrugged. “They open the Mary door, I’ll open the Ruth door. She comes across like a crazed poisoner.”

Her words made him feel odd. Ruth had loved him, had worn his wedding ring. She’d wrapped her life around his like a little green vine. Now, Ruth was a ghost, haunting his nightmares, appearing in Lily’s face when the light came at a certain angle.

“How do you feel about testifying?” asked Alex.

“I’m okay with it,” he said, grateful to leave the subject of Ruth.

“Can you remember what we talked about? When you go on the stand?”

“Answer your questions in full. Answer Bagwell’s questions briefly. Be polite, especially to the judge. Don’t take any punches at Fred Moon.”

“Even if they make you mad?” Alex said. “Even if they say awful things about you and Mary?”

He shook his head, feeling like a child promising never to call the playground bully a bad name. “Whatever anybody says, I stay polite.”

“Then we’re cool, buddy.” Alex offered him a fist-bump. “I have every reason to believe that this will work out in your favor.”

Please God, he thought, staring out at the flat farmland as Alex turned south on Highway 52. He had no idea what he would do if the judge gave Lily over to the Moons. Suddenly, his cell phone vibrated. He pulled it from the pocket of his jacket. It was a text message, from Mary.

Good luck today. Still saving you a seat in Carolina.

A thousand miles to the east, Mary put her cell phone on her table at Sadie’s coffee shop, hoping that Jonathan would get her text message before he went into court. She’d gotten little sleep the night before, both excited over discovering the shape note figures and terrified about Jonathan’s custody trial. About the trial she could nothing but offer her support; about the shape notes, she had quite a few more options. She’d done some Internet research last night and learned that Dr. Munro, the funny little man at the church, was one of the country’s foremost authorities on Sacred Harp music. She’d decided, around five in the morning, to take her transcribed scribblings to him. Maybe he could figure out the tune carved into Lisa Wilson’s body.

She waited through two more cups of coffee for Jonathan to text back, then she gave up and returned to her office. He’ll text when there’s something to text about, she told herself. He’s probably so nervous right now his fingers can’t press the keys.

She sat down at her desk and looked up the number for the Sugartree Baptist Assembly. A pleasant secretary answered her call, and happily gave her Dermot Munro’s number. When he answered her call, she re-introduced herself and told him that she’d copied some old shape note music down and would he have a look at it?

“I’d be happy to.” Munro sounded thrilled. “Just bring it to the next singing!”

“I may not be in town then,” said Mary. “Could you possibly have a look this morning?”

Munro paused for an instant, then replied, chirpy as ever. “Of course. I live at 1414 Mulberry Street, in Sylva. I’ll be here until three this afternoon.”

“I’ll be there in an hour.”

She locked all of Lisa Wilson’s photos in a drawer and headed down the stairs. Forty-five minutes later she stood ringing the doorbell of a modest brick home shaded by an old tree laden with ripening apples.

“My,” Dermot Munro exclaimed as he opened his front door. “You are quick on the trigger.”

“I apologize for coming so early,” said Mary. “But this song has been driving me crazy.”

“It’s alright,” said Munro. “My wife and I are retired teachers. We still get up early. Come on in.”

Mary walked into the living room of a couple who’d obviously devoted their lives to music. Small busts of Beethoven and Mozart stood on two end tables, while over-stuffed chintz chairs held stacks of sheet music. A grand piano commanded one corner of the room, a full-length mirror beside it.

“Hopefully, this won’t take long,” said Mary, pulling out the legal pad that held Lisa Wilson’s notes. “I wondered if you recognized this tune.”

Munro studied the scribbled music. “Does it have a title?”

“No.” Mary thought of the old trunk in her office. “I just copied notes written inside an old trunk.”

“Well, that’s a new one on me,” said Munro. “I’ve never heard of one written inside a trunk.” Nonetheless, he sat down at the piano and began to play. The melody sounded odd and discordant, as if it were some composer’s work-in-progress.

“Hmmm,” said Dr. Munro. “Let’s put this in minor key.” He shifted his hands on the keyboard and played the song again. It sounded no better.

Frowning at the notes, he called to his wife. “Ima Lou, would you come in here and see if you recognize this?”

Mary turned as the lemonade lady from last night came bustling in “Well, hello!” she said, pumping Mary’s hand. “How nice to see you again!”

“Nice to see you, too.” Mary smiled. “I really enjoyed last night.”

Dr. Munro looked up from the piano. “Sweetheart, see if you recognize this tune. This young lady found it written inside a trunk.” He gave Mary a wink. “Ima Lou taught voice for thirty years. She has a sub-specialty in Southern Gospel traditions.”

Ima Lou stood behind her husband, gazing at the music while Munro played the tune for a second time.

“Have you ever heard that before?” He looked up at her over his shoulder. “In the shape note literature?”

“Never.” She shook her head. “It’s so plaintive—it almost sounds like a string tune.”

“You’re right, Ima Lou!” cried Munro. “Violin, maybe. Or cello.”

Mary gulped. Fiddle music at the cabin, fiddle notes carved on Lisa’s body. Were two pieces of the puzzle fitting together?

“So you probably wouldn’t find it in the shape note hymnal?” Mary wanted to be sure she understood this correctly.

“None that we know of.” Munro nodded at a bookshelf stacked with books. “And we’ve got all the collections. If you found it in a trunk, it might just be a snippet of a tune somebody wrote down so they wouldn’t forget it.”

“Thank you so much.” Mary smiled at the couple as she took back her scrawled musical transcription. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

“Then give Ginger our best and come to the shape note singing again,” Dr. Munro replied. “We meet the third Thursday of each month.”

“I’ll put it on my calendar,” Mary said. “I feel like I’ve just scratched the surface of Sacred Harp singing.”

She got back in her car. She checked her cell phone, but there was nothing from either Jonathan or Alex. They’re probably in court now, she told herself, the pit of her stomach fluttery with nerves. They’ll call when they have something to call about.

Keeping her phone plugged in to the dashboard, she turned her attention to the shape notes. Thanks to the Munros, she now had clues that weren’t mere wisps of conjecture. The figures on Lisa Wilson’s body comprised a tune, probably written for a stringed instrument.

“Which throws your canned-music theory in the toilet,” she said aloud. “But doubles down on every fiddle player in the mountains, starting with Stratton.”

But still, why cut this tune into someone’s flesh? What did it mean? What she needed now was not a Sacred Harp expert, but someone who knew fiddle music.

“Lige McCauley,” she said. She’d hired him and his string band to play the sports park ceremony. He was famous in the old-time music community, and was the current spiritual godfather of all mountain fiddlers. Now, all she had to do was find him. She remembered sending his check to an address sparse by current standards—simply Lige McCauley, Grapevine, Madison County, North Carolina.

“Okay, Lige. Here I come.” She got back on the highway and headed north. Ninety minutes later she crossed into Madison County, a place of roaring creeks and woodsy hollers populated by mountain families who’d arrived in the mid 1700s and never left again. At a market she asked for directions to Grapevine and drove where she thought the clerk had told her, but she found no town, no church, not even a gas station. She was beginning to think that Grapevine might be one of those nebulous mountain communities that was more a state of mind than an actual place. If you lived there, you knew where it was. If you didn’t, you could pass right through without ever knowing you’d visited.

After twisting along the Ivy River for a few miles, she came to a gap between two mountain ridges where the woods thinned out enough to allow a small, one-gas-pump country store and a row of industrial-sized garbage bins. Quickly, she turned into the parking lot. If this wasn’t Grapevine, then maybe someone here could get her there. She parked her car and headed up the steps. Inside, the store was dimly lit and smelled of old wood fires. The narrow aisles were packed with everything from laundry detergent to lottery tickets. She walked to the counter, where a large woman with hair the color of soot sat behind an old brass cash register, frying apple tarts in an electric skillet.

“Help you?” the woman asked as she flipped one of the tarts over.

“I was wondering if you know where Grapevine is.”

“This is Grapevine.”

Mary smiled; she figured it might be someplace like this. “Then do you know where Lige McCauley lives?”

“Well, if you want to get to his house, you go a mile out the highway and take a left, then a right, then another left after you cross the bridge. If you want to get to Lige, just go over yonder.” She pointed to the back of the store.

Mary returned her odd look. “He’s here?” She figured finding McCauley would take the whole day and probably half the night.

The woman laughed. “He and Luke Lunsford have been here since breakfast. They play checkers all morning, music all afternoon.”

“Thanks.” Amazed at her good luck, Mary threaded her way to the back of the store. After passing two shelves of tattered paperbacks that made up the Grapevine Public Library, she found Lige McCauley folded into a rocking chair next to a cold Franklin stove, frowning as another old man jumped checkers across a board. She watched quietly as his opponent cleared all of Lige’s men from the board, then she stepped forward.

“Lige?”

He looked up from under a brown felt fedora that had been stylish during World War II. “Why, hey there, girlie,” he said, his blue eyes brightening with recognition. “How’ve you been?”

“Do you remember me?”

He nodded. “I surely do. You paid me and my boys in advance for that last gig. Fellers like us remember that.”

Lige’s opponent rose from his seat, politely offering her his chair. “Lige, I think I’ll go get us some of Earlene’s pies while they’re hot.”

Lige nodded. As his friend hobbled toward the front of the store, Mary took the chair he’d offered. “I need a favor, Lige.”

“You got another park to open?”

“Not right now. I need to know if you can read music.”

“I can,” he said. “My mama taught me … she played the organ at the Presbyterian Church.”

Mary pulled out her scribbled notes. “Then I need to know if you’ve ever heard this tune before.”

Lige studied the music for a long moment. With an odd look at Mary, he took his fiddle from its case, put the music on the checkerboard and started to play. While Dermot Munro had turned Mary’s crude array of shapes into a real tune, Lige McCauley brought that tune to life. He coaxed and tickled the notes, bending them with time and tempo. The music that came from his fiddle was like nothing Mary had ever heard before—so sad and sweet that it made her ache for Jonathan and Lily and a thousand other things she could not put a name to. She got out the digital recorder she used in court and turned it on as Lige began to sing.

In my cabin in the woods, my dear sweet love lies bleeding.

In my cabin in the woods, my bloody knife lies reeking.

Though the one I love is gone today, her memory never leaves me.

Her cold gray lips and sightless eyes will forever grieve me.

McCauley sang the song twice, then put his fiddle down. “Where’d you get this?” he asked, his tone sharp.

“Why?” asked Mary. “Have you heard it before?”

He gave a somber nod. “That tune is cursed. Came straight out of Central Prison.”

“Cursed?” Mary leaned forward, as if she hadn’t heard him correctly. “What do you mean?”

“I spent some time there.” He looked at her with unashamed eyes. “Before I met Jesus, I had some trouble with the law.”

“When were you in prison?”

“April 12, 1970, to April 22, 1972.” He rubbed his chin. “Two years that passed like two hundred.”

“And you heard this tune while you were there?”

“Feller played it every night. It came from the building across from mine, where they kept the boys on death row. Every night the whole cellblock would go quiet, waiting for that tune to begin. It was pretty, but it tore your heart out. Little by little, we learned the words. Then everybody got to where they couldn’t stand it … the sadness just drove you crazy.”

“Do you know who played it?” asked Mary.

McCauley shook his head. “I reckon just some poor bastard in prison.”

“Were they still playing it when you were released?”

“Nope. We heard it for months, then one night we didn’t hear it no more. Everybody got real antsy, waitin’ for it to start again, but it never did. We figured they must have gassed the guy who played it, Lord bless his soul.”

“Have you ever heard anybody else play it? Anybody around here?”

He shook his head. “Naw. The only people who’d know that tune would be dead by now. Or still locked up in prison.”

“But it’s so haunting, so beautiful,” said Mary.

Lige McCauley’s blue eyes flashed. “Maybe to you, girlie. To me it’s somebody’s soul, flying up out of that hell hole, trying to find a place to land.”