Chapter 25 Sighting
Sighting
Kate Shaw
Eli and Eddie don’t know what to say. The strange girl with the piercings speaks riddles as cryptic as Birdie’s.
At least they’re hopeful words that may comfort the Dillards—if Eli or Eddie tells them.
I hope she speaks the truth, but if she does then I am yet again confounded.
It is as though I’m living in a different dimension and the ground beneath my feet is shifting sand.
I crank the old Edsel and it starts on the first try, though it’s been months since I’ve driven it. This behemoth could swallow Lydia’s Jeep and still feel hungry. It’s almost as big as my cabin and now carries Birdie’s precious books off the mountain.
Rachel’s head sticks out the open passenger window with his ears pinned back by the breeze, his tongue lolled to the side of his grin.
In my rearview mirror I see Eli and Eddie watch me abandon them and I almost hit the brakes and stay—but why?
I can’t fix the hardships this place faces.
Baines Creek is more desolate now than when I arrived, and I wonder what’s been the point of it all?
When they are out of sight, I breathe easier and follow Lydia’s Jeep as it cautiously fords the creek and weaves around blind curves.
Where we are going, what I will find, and what I will do are unknowns that are more appealing than staying.
When I told Lydia the story of the killing snow it brought other memories to mind.
Memories about Mother and my love, Rachel, both long dead.
Women who still flavor my days when I let them.
Mother would call today’s spontaneous decision reckless, foolish, dangerous, desperate.
Rachel would be tickled I’m going on an adventure.
We enter Burnsville and its center square, then head east on an unfamiliar road with the setting sun behind us.
The further I’m away from Baines Creek, the more right it feels to go somewhere else.
Why have I not left the mountain more often except for summers?
Maybe I needed a reason and now have one.
Five more miles at a cluster of buildings called Micaville, my eyes play tricks on me.
Outside a country store I see Loretty! She wears a familiar faded dress and walks beside a small woman with bent shoulders and pale hair.
They hold hands, and each carries a basket.
I pass by so quickly that I only have a glimpse and think I’m surely mistaken.
Loretty would never leave her parents in such a miserable state if she could help it.
The child I passed wasn’t conflicted or in danger.
Wasn’t being held against her will. I need to talk to that girl, but I don’t stop for fear I’ll lose sight of Lydia’s car.
The further I drive, the more I doubt myself.
Twelve more miles and we drive through the town of Spruce Pine, then Grassy Creek, and enter the shaded Blue Ridge Parkway, which I’ve read about but never had leisure time to drive.
Politics rerouted this scenic road around Asheville to end in Cherokee—not in Tennessee as originally planned.
The political stakes were high and the battle long and likely the rewards substantial.
We dart through a blackened tunnel then exit into Little Switzerland.
I follow Lydia’s Jeep into the gravel lot at the inn, which is modeled after a Swiss chalet with heavy timbers, exposed beams, and decorative brackets. They park, and I pull beside them.
“Thought we’d eat supper now,” she explains. “My treat. Have you been to Little Switzerland before?”
“No. Only the real one.”
“Switzerland? When?”
“Thirty years ago.”
“Did you go by yourself?”
“No. Went with my sister, Rachel,” I lie.
My dog stays in the car with the windows cracked, and a promise I’ll bring him a doggie bag. Lydia opens the heavy entry door, walks through the expansive lobby and out to the patio. A waitress recognizes Lydia and her niece, shows us to a choice table, and gives us menus.
Gus says to the waitress, “You got a second one!” and her hand flies to her ear as she grins.
“You turned me brave. Got it three days back.”
“Looks good,” the girl says about a fresh piercing, and I wonder why lovely Gus with skin as smooth as a pearl would sully it with piercings. Is it to declare that her body belongs to her? That she’ll do with it what she pleases? And, if so, isn’t that a good thing?
They give me the seat facing the valley and I admit, “Haven’t been in this kind of luxury for a long while.”
Lydia explains, “The original inn was torn down twenty years back, and this was built in its place.”
“It feels perfect in this setting, doesn’t it?”
Our drinks arrive and we order dinner, then I ask what I should have asked an hour ago, “I followed you over hill and dale without asking what should have been my first question: What will I be doing here?”
She chuckles. “Rewarding work. We’ll study Birdie’s books with fresh eyes, and for the parts we can’t decipher, we’ll find somebody who can.
We’ll be careful to preserve each book as Birdie left it.
The books she handled most will be evident and have greater wear and tear and possibly be more important to her.
We’ll have plenty of secrets to unravel and organize.
But the trunk and manuscript will require a curator’s help.
” Lydia adds sugar to her iced tea, stirs, and asks, “I’m curious about you as well. What’s your educational background?”
I list my pedigrees. “Vanderbilt for an English degree and a year abroad at Oxford in my third year. Then a master’s degree in anthropology.” I add as a footnote, “Vanderbilt was my mother’s alma mater.” This is true but not the whole truth.
Lydia plops back in her seat. “Kate Shaw, if an alien sat down at our table, I could not be more surprised. And you’ve spent the last decade teaching in a one-room schoolhouse? Did Eli know?”
“I’m not sure Eli saw my résumé. I was the only one who answered his plea tacked on a church bulletin board. He was relieved.”
“But today’s timing is all strangely perfect.
Your education, the closing of the schoolhouse, and possibly the most intriguing discovery ever found in Appalachia laid at our feet.
I’m grateful you invited me to help with this project.
” She raises her glass of tea and salutes me. “To conundrums and curious minds.”
I add somberly, “And to finding a lost child.”
A day that started with bland oatmeal, weak tea, and worry is ending in promises I don’t deserve.
Dinner is a perfect pork chop, creamed potatoes pooled with butter, tender asparagus, and decadent peach cobbler for dessert.
I save half my chop for Rachel and he smells it when I get in the car.
I don’t wait on formalities but open the foil and let him enjoy a rare treat, and then we follow the Jeep across the road and around the corner to a line of connected shops: the Diamondback Café, a general store that doubles as a post office, and Books and Beans.
We park near the bookstore that is closed for the day, but Lydia has the key.
We three carry boxes up steep stairs to the workroom.
She unlocks the door and turns on overhead light to reveal a white, spacious room with windows on three sides.
This is where Lydia processes donations to Special Collections.
It’s where Birdie’s books will be safe. Our last task is to deliver the wooden chest to its new space and cover it with the old quilt.
When finished, Gus, Lydia and I give a sigh of relief.
Suddenly I feel very tired and very old.
Lydia declares, “It’s time to go home and start fresh tomorrow.”
On the drive, I reflect on my sin of omission.
I was honest with Lydia about my Vanderbilt degrees, but the truth is more complex.
Mother went to Vanderbilt, so I went to Vanderbilt.
Her greatest achievement was being named president of the local chapter of Alpha Delta Pi.
I was rushed by that sorority on her merits, but it was an abysmal fit.
I offered none of the aesthetics focusing on gentility and privilege.
I was never the Southern belle hoping to catch the eye of a future politician or doctor.
I was too smart for men, too studious for my sorority sisters, and too antisocial to be of any use for Mother’s mahjong conversation.
I had a small world filled mostly with books until Rachel Harrison chose to love me.