“You’re…the lady who called? You came from Atlanta?” She blinked, the information sinking in.
“That’s right. I can’t tell you how important it is that I see your husband.”
“I know who you are.” The woman nodded. “You’re the one whose baby was taken. Mark and I talked about that. I knew I’d heard your name before!”
Laura stood there, waiting. Then the woman said, “Oh! Come on in!” She unlatched the screen door, and opened it wide to accept Laura.
In her college days Laura had been in many dorm rooms and hippie apartments. Her own apartment had been pretty much “hippified,” or at least what passed for such at the University of Georgia. The house immediately took her back to those days. It was full of cheap apartment furniture, with crates serving as book and record cases, a big orange beanbag chair with UT emblazoned on it, and a beige sofa that looked as if it had been slept on for quite a number of years. Vases with dried flowers stood about, and on the walls were actual, genuine, real McCoy black light posters, one showing the astrological signs and the other depicting a three-masted ship against a full moon. A wood carving on one wall read LET IT BE. Laura was sure she smelled strawberry incense and lentils cooking. Fat, half-burned candles— those kinds with intricate wax designs and varicolored bands on them—were arranged on a countertop, next to books that included the works of Kahlil Gibran and Rod McKuen. Laura could look through a corridor and see a poster at the end of it: War Is Not Healthy for Children and Other Living Things.
The sensation of stepping back into time might have been complete for Laura except for some GoBots scattered on the floor and a Nintendo atop the television set. The woman with braided hair scooped up the GoBots. “Kids,” she said with a toothy smile. “They leave stuff everywhere, don’t they?”
Laura spotted a Barbie doll clad in a doll-size shimmery white gown, leaning against a record crate full of battered-looking album jackets. “You have two children?”
“Right on. Mark Junior’s ten, and Becca’s just turned eight. Sorry the place is a wreck. Getting ’em off to school some mornings’s like a tornado passing through. Get you some tea? I’ve just made some Red Zinger.”
It had been years since Laura had tasted Red Zinger tea. “That would be fine,” she said, and she followed the woman into the cramped little kitchen. The refrigerator had peace signs painted all over it in vivid colors. The crayon drawings of children were taped up. Love You, Mom was printed on one of them. Laura looked quickly away from it, because a lump had risen into her throat.
“I’m Rose,” the woman said. “Pleased to meet you.” She offered her hand, and Laura shook it. Then Rose went about her task of getting cups and pouring the tea from a brown clay pot. “We’ve got raw sugar,” she said, and Laura told her that would be fine, too. As Rose got their tea ready, Laura saw the woman had on Birkenstock sandals, staple hippie footwear. Rose Treggs wore faded jeans with patched knees and a bulky sea-green sweater that was a dozen rubs away from giving at the elbows. She was about five feet tall, and she moved with the quick, birdlike energy of petite people. In the kitchen’s sunlight, Laura could see the hints of gray in Rose Treggs’s hair. The woman had an attractive, open face and freckles across her nose and cheeks, but the lines around her mouth and at the corners of her dark blue eyes told a tale of a hard life. “Here you go,” Rose said, giving Laura a rough clay cup with a hippie’s long-jawed, bearded face molded into it. “You want lemon?”
“No, thanks.” She sipped the tea. Few things in life remained the same, but Red Zinger persevered.
They sat in the living room, amid the relics of a bygone age. Looking around at it all, Laura imagined the voice of Bob Dylan singing “Blowin’ in the Wind.” She could feel Rose watching her, nervously waiting for her to speak. “I read your husband’s book,” Laura began.
“Which one? He’s written three.”
“Burn This Book.”
“Oh, right. That’s sold the best. Almost four hundred copies.”
“I reviewed it for the Constitution.” The review, however, had never been printed. “It was interesting.”
“We’ve got our own publishing company,” Rose said. “Mountaintop Press.” She smiled and shrugged. “Well, it’s just a typeset machine and some stuff in the basement, really. We sell mostly by mail order, to college bookstores. But that’s how Benjamin Franklin started, huh?”
Laura leaned forward in her chair. “Rose? I have to talk to your husband. You understand what’s happened to me, don’t you?”
Rose nodded. “We saw it on the news and read about it, too. Blew our minds. But you don’t look like your picture.”
“My baby has been stolen from me,” Laura said, holding the tears back by sheer willpower. “He was two days old. His name is David, and I…I wanted a child very badly.” Careful, she thought. Her eyes were burning. “You know who took my baby, don’t you?”
“Yeah. Mary Terror. We thought she was dead by now.”
“Mary Terror,” Laura repeated, her gaze fixed on Rose’s face. “The FBI’s looking for her. But they can’t find her. It’s been twelve days, and she’s disappeared with my son. Do you have any idea how long twelve days can be?”
Rose didn’t answer. She looked away from Laura because the woman’s intense stare made her nervous.
“Every day can stretch and stretch until you feel as if it’s never going to end,” Laura continued. “You think the hours are stuck. And at night, when it’s so quiet you can hear your heart beat…at night it’s the worst. I’ve got an empty nursery in my house, and Mary Terrell has my son. I read your husband’s book. I read about the Storm Front in it. He knows someone who was a member of the Storm Front, doesn’t he?”
“That was a long time ago.”
“I realize that. But anything he could tell me might help the FBI, Rose. Anything. As it is, they’re spinning their wheels. I can’t take many more days of waiting for a phone call to tell me if my David is alive or dead. Can you understand that?”
Rose released a long breath and nodded, her face downcast. “Yeah. When we heard about it, we had a long talk. We wondered how we’d feel if somebody took Mark Junior or Becca. It would be a heavy trip, that’s for sure.” She looked up. “Mark did know a woman who belonged to the Storm Front. But he didn’t know Mary Terror. He doesn’t know anything that would help you get your baby back.”
“How can you be sure about that? Maybe your husband knows something that he doesn’t think is important, but it could be of real value. I don’t think I have to tell you how desperate I am. You’re a mother. You know how you’d feel.” She saw Rose frown, the lines deepening. “Please. I need to find your husband and ask him some questions. I won’t take much of his time. Will you tell me where I can find him?”
Rose’s teeth worked her lower lip. She swirled the Red Zinger around her teacup, and then she said, “Yeah. Okay. There’s a phone number, but I didn’t give it to you because they don’t like to go out and track down the custodians. I mean, it’s a big place.”
“Where does your husband work?”
Rose told her where, and how to get there. Laura finished her tea, said thank you, and left the house. At the front door Rose wished her peace, and the chimes stirred in the chill breeze.
Rock City was perched atop Lookout Mountain. It was not a suburb of Chattanooga, but rather a tourist attraction of walkways winding between huge, wind-chiseled boulders, a waterfall plummeting from a sheer cliff, and rock gardens with benches for the weary. Signs with bearded elves pointed out the admission gate and the parking lot. On such a cold day, even with the sun shining, the lot was all but empty. Laura paid her money in a building where Indian arrowheads and Confederate caps were on sale, and she was told by the clerk that Mark Treggs was probably out sweeping the path near the Swinging Bridge. She started off, following the walkway over, around, and sometimes even through the center of gargantuan rocks, the denuded bones of Lookout Mountain. She easily got through a crevic
e called Fatman’s Squeeze, and she realized she was losing the weight of pregnancy. The pathway took her up into the sunlight again, out of the freezing shadows of the stones, and she at last saw the Swinging Bridge ahead of her. There was no one on the path, though. She crossed the bridge, which indeed did creak and swing, a gorge full of rocks about sixty feet below. She continued along the path, her hands thrust into the pockets of her overcoat. She didn’t see anyone else anywhere. One thing she noticed, though: the walkways couldn’t have been cleaner. And then she came around a curve and she heard it: the high, birdlike notes of a pennywhistle.
Laura followed the music. In another moment she found him. He was sitting cross-legged atop a boulder, his rake and broom leaning against the stone, and he was playing a pennywhistle and staring toward a vast panorama of pine woods and blue sky.
“Mr. Treggs?” she said, standing at the boulder’s base.
He kept playing. The music was slow and gentle, and sad in a way. A pennywhistle, Laura thought, was an instrument played in circuses by clowns with tears painted on their cheeks. “Mr. Treggs?” she repeated a little louder.
The music stopped. Mark Treggs took the pennywhistle from his mouth and looked down at her. He had a long dark-brown beard peppered with gray and his hair hung over his shoulders, a blue baseball cap on his head. Under thick, gray-flecked brows, his large, luminous hazel eyes peered at Laura from behind wire-framed granny glasses. “Yes?”
“My name is Laura Clayborne. I’ve come from Atlanta to find you.”
Mark Treggs squinted, as if trying to get her into focus. “I don’t…think I know…”
“Laura Clayborne,” she said again. “Mary Terrell stole my baby twelve days ago.”
His mouth opened, but he didn’t say anything.
“I read Burn This Book,” she went on. “You talked about the Storm Front. You said you knew someone who belonged to it. I’ve come to ask you—”
“Oh,” he said. It was a boyish voice that did not go with the gray. “Oh, wow.”
“For help,” Laura finished.
“I saw you on the tube! My old lady and I both saw you! We were talking about you just last night!” He scrambled down off the boulder with surefooted ease. He was wearing a brown uniform and a jacket with Rock City stenciled in red on one breast pocket and Mark on the other. Treggs stood about six three and was as skinny as a spider monkey, his face all beard, wild eyebrows, and goggly eyes behind the glasses. “Man, what a trip! I swear, we were talking about you!”
“I saw Rose. She told me where to find you.” The cup, she thought. The face on it was his.
“You went to my house? Wow!”
“Mr. Treggs? Listen to me. I need your help. You know someone who belonged to the Storm Front. Is that right?”
His goofy smile began to fade. He blinked a few times, regaining his equilibrium. “Oh,” he said. “That’s why you’re here?”
“Yes. I read your latest book.”
“My book. Right.” He nodded, and slid the pennywhistle into his back pocket. “Listen…excuse me, but I’ve got to get back to work.” He retrieved the rake and broom. “I can’t sit around too long. They get mad.” He started to move away.
Laura followed him. “Wait a minute! Didn’t you hear what I said?” She reached out, grasped his shoulder, and stopped his gawky, long-legged strides. “I’m asking you for your help!”
“I can’t help you,” he said flatly. “Sorry.” Again he began striding away.
Laura kept pace, a surge of anger rising and whorls of red in her cheeks. “Mr. Treggs! Wait, please! Just give me one minute!”
He kept going, his speed picking up.
“Wait! Just hear me out!”
Faster still.
“I SAID WAIT, DAMN IT!” Laura shouted, and she grabbed Mark Treggs by the left arm, spun him around with all her strength, and slammed his back against a smooth boulder. He gave a little grunt, and the rake and broom slid from his hand. His eyes had grown larger, owlish, and frightened.
“Please,” he said. “I can’t stand violence.”
“Neither can I! But by God my son was stolen from me by a murderess, and you’re going to tell me what I want to know!” She shook him. “Can you dig it, man?”
He didn’t answer. Then, quietly: “Yeah, I can dig it.”
“Good.” Laura released him, but she blocked his way so he couldn’t escape. “You knew a Storm Fronter. Who was it?”
Treggs looked around. “Okay, come on! Where’re the pigs hiding? You brought ’em, didn’t you?”
“No police. Nobody but me.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter anyhow.” He shrugged. “I don’t care if you’re wired. So I was in a commune for a few months with Bedelia Morse. Didi to her friends. So what? I didn’t hang out with the Storm Fronters, so you can put that in the pig pipe and let ’em smoke it.”
“What happened to Bedelia Morse? Did she die at the shootout in New Jersey?”
“No, she got away. Listen, that’s all I know. I was in a commune with Didi and about eight other people back in ’sixty-nine, before she got into the Storm Front. We were in South Carolina, and we broke up after four months because everybody got tired of getting rousted by the local pigs. End of story.”
“Didn’t you know her at Berkeley?”
“Uh-uh. She didn’t go to Berkeley. She got hooked on the Storm Front when she went to New York. Listen, I didn’t know anything else about her. Okay?”
“And you haven’t heard from her since?”
“No way.” Treggs bent his long body over and picked up the rake and broom. “You got your wire turned up loud enough for the pigs to hear? Read my lips: No way.”
“What about Mary Terrell? Is there anything you can tell me about her?”
“Yeah.” He took off his glasses, pulled a handkerchief from his shirt, and cleaned the lenses. “But you already know. She’s crazy as hell. She won’t give up to the pigs. They’ll have to kill her.”
“And she’ll kill my son. Is that what you’re saying?”
“I didn’t say that.” He put his glasses back on. “Listen, Mrs. Clayborne, I’m sorry about all this. Really I am. But I don’t know anything else about the Storm Front that the pigs—I mean, that the police and FBI don’t already know. I’m sorry you came all this way, but I can’t help you.”
Laura had an instant where she feared she might pass out. She’d built up her hopes—for what, she wasn’t sure—and now this was nothing but a dead end.
“You don’t look so good,” Treggs said. “You want to sit down?” She nodded, and he took her by the arm and led her to a bench. “You want a Coke? I can get you one.” She shook her head, fighting nausea. She realized that if she threw up, Treggs would have to clean up the mess. It might be worthwhile to do it, just for the hell of it. But she didn’t, and she lifted her face to the breeze and felt the cold sweat begin to dry.
She said in a husky voice, “Is there anything else? Do you have any idea where Mary Terrell might be?”
“No. I don’t know where Didi is, either. That was a long time ago.” He sat down on the bench beside her, his long legs splayed out. He wore red Adidas sneakers with stars on them. “That commune,” he mused. “Man, it seems like that was part of a different world. Well, it was, wasn’t it?” He squinted in the sunlight, and watched a hawk circle above the mountain. “Long time gone,” he said. “We had a nice life. Lived on a little farm, had a couple of cows and some chickens. We didn’t bother anybody. All we wanted to do was find nirvana. Know what the pigs finally busted us for?” He waited for Laura to shake her head. “No business license. See, Didi made things. She was a potter, and she sold stuff in town. She was doing pretty good, too, then bam: no business license. Man, I don’t see why we don’t run out of trees, with all the paper you get choked with. I mean, how come we’ve still got forests, with all the paper that’s been used in all of history? And think about wooden furniture, and houses, and everything else made of wood. How
come we’ve still got forests?” He prodded her with a sharp elbow. “Huh?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you should write a book about it.”
“Yeah, maybe I will,” he said. “But then that would be using more paper, wouldn’t it? See? A vicious cycle.”
They sat for a while in silence. The cold wind strengthened, and Laura heard the cry of a hawk on its current. Mark Treggs stood up. “You ought to see the rest of Rock City while you’re here. It’s nice. Peaceful, this time of year. You feel like you own the whole place.”
“I don’t feel much like sightseeing.”
“No, I guess not. Well, I’ve got to get back to work. Can you find your way out?”
Laura nodded. Where was she going to go? And what was she going to do when she got there?
Treggs hesitated, holding the broom and rake. “Listen…for what it’s worth, I’m really sorry about what’s happened. I thought Mary Terrell was dead, buried in an unmarked grave somewhere. I guess you never know who’s going to turn up, huh?”
“You never know,” Laura agreed.
“Right. Well, you take care. Too bad you had to come all this way for nothing.” He still lingered, throwing a skinny shadow at her feet. “I hope they find your baby,” he said. “Peace.” He made the sign, and then he turned and walked away.
She let him go. What was the point? At last, when she was sure she wasn’t going to be sick, she stood up. What to do now? Go back to Atlanta. No, no. She didn’t feel like making the drive this afternoon. Maybe she’d find a motel room, get herself a bottle of cheap red wine, and let it rip. Two bottles, maybe. What the hell?
She followed her shadow along the winding trail of Rock City; it was the thin, compressed shadow of a woman crushed between the past and the future, and every direction it pointed toward seemed hopeless.
3
Eve of Destruction
NIGHT HAD FALLEN. THE BOXES WERE A LIGHT. FROM THEIR windows came the glow of den lamps and televisions, small squares of illumination that marched into the distance. There were thousands of them in the darkness, thousands of lives going on about her as Mary Terror guided the van between row after row of Linden’s brick and woodframe houses. Drummer, recently fed and changed, lay in his new bassinet on the floorboard and sucked on a pacifier. The van’s heater had gotten cranky, wheezing with effort. Mary came to a four-way intersection, slowed, and then drove on, deeper into the heart of memory. The frigid wind swirled newspapers and trash before the headlights, and two men in heavy coats and caps with earflaps crossed the street. Mary watched them move away, out of the lights. She kept going, looking for Carazella’s grocery store. She thought she remembered it on the corner of Montgomery Avenue and Charles Street, but a topless bar called Nicky’s stood there. She wound through the streets, searching for the past.