When Venus Fell

  “Look, I don’t know what you’re trying to prove to yourself, but I know this isn’t the way to do it. Does this have something to do with your brother?”

  The mention of Simon made him bow his head. I crept closer to him. “Talk. Talk to me. I talked to you—to that photograph—for years. Now you talk to me.”

  Gib bent his head nearer mine. His breath hot and quick on my face, he gasped for air. Then, “We came here to cut boards for the chapel floor. We were arguing about something that wasn’t even important. We were in a hurry. I was always in a hurry. Simon caught his arm in the beltdrive by the blade. I tried to hold on to him, but the belt pulled him into the blade. The blade snagged my hand. Then it caught my brother and cut him to pieces.”

  I swallowed the bile that rose in my throat. Suddenly I could imagine the smell of blood, the carnage. Gib exhaled harshly. He must have been picturing the same thing but in horrible detail. “Okay,” I whispered quickly. “Okay. It’s over.” He raised his head, looked at me, pressed his cheek against the top of my head, then put his arms around me and held me snugly.

  I froze. It had been years since I’d hugged anyone except Ella for comfort—either to give or receive it. Gib represented every kind of easy protection Pop had raised me to reject. Suddenly, just being there, choosing to be in the valley and to follow Gib—made me despise myself. Who was the enemy? Who did I blame for what had happened to Pop, and then to Ella and me? Gib and his whole pioneer-American, patriotic family personified the Us in an Us-versus-Them world.

  And I would always be one of Them.

  But then I heard the whisper of Sister Mary Catherine’s lectures, God bless her stern, unyielding soul. You’re a musical wonder with a pagan name and a heathen father, but you’re a passionate child. Look into your heart and never forget to give that passion to the people who need you. That’s all that will save you.

  Slowly I put my arms around Gib. We held on to each other and gave comfort.

  For the first time in ten years, something in my life was pure, innocent, and simple.

  Nine

  Later Gib sobered enough to drive me back to New Inverness. He escorted me to the deep, stone-columned veranda of Hoss and Sophia’s house, his stride showing only the slightest waver. He stepped ahead of me with easy grace, opened their beautiful stained-glass front door, then stepped back, gesturing for me to enter. I could see the dignified but not quite deferential attitude of a man trained to serve and protect.

  “I’ll see what I can do about having your car repaired,” he said with quiet formality.

  “I appreciate that,” I answered the same way.

  “We’ll expect you and Ella at the Hall in the morning. I’ll send someone to pick you up after breakfast.”

  “Thank you.”

  “There’s nothing I can do about today except apologize and swear nothing like that will happen again. I had no right to lay my hands on you in anger, not for any reason. I had no right to upset you. I had no right to expect your help and concern. The fact that you kept me from hurting myself speaks well for your integrity and badly for mine.”

  “Oh, please, I’m not used to being worshiped.”

  “I’ve been turning into a drunk. An invalid and a drunk,” he went on wearily. “This isn’t the only day I’ve gone to that sawmill stoned out of my mind. It’s just the first time I had the guts to unlock the door.”

  I glanced at him sideways, for safety. I could still feel his arms around me, and when I looked at him the sensation wrapped me up again. “Good for you, then. You unlocked the door.”

  “And I would have done more if you hadn’t stolen my damned engine key.”

  I bristled, preparing for an argument. But there was the slightest glimmer in his eyes, like the sunny rim of a cloud. I snorted. “Ass.”

  “I’m going back this afternoon and find that key, Nellie.”

  With a grim smile of victory, he left me standing there. I don’t know which made me madder—his stubborn refusal to forget the sawmill project until he was strong enough and had enough help to do the work safely, or the fact that he’d just turned my ear-pleasing Italian family name into a down-home Tennessee nickname.

  Sophia found me wandering in a daze up a front hall, and came with her hands out. “What has happened to you? My husband went looking in the valley.”

  “Vee!” Ella called, as she hurried down a handsomely carved staircase. “I was so worried! You’ve been gone two hours! What happened?”

  “I met Gib at the chapel. He went to the sawmill. I followed him. He was drunk.”

  “You went there with him?” Sophia said in a soft, horrified contralto. I nodded. She moaned. “But no one goes there. They can’t bear it. Did he—oh, he was never supposed to go there and try to use that terrible blade again—”

  “He didn’t,” I promised. Miserable and bone tired, I pulled the sawmill engine key from my skirt pocket. “What’s that?” Ella asked, but Sophia gasped. I dragged myself up the stairs. As I passed Ella I noticed her exasperated and puzzled expression. I patted her shoulder. “I’m fine,” I lied. I heard Sophia sigh, behind me, “Oh! It is true, it is true! The angels have sent you to work miracles!”

  I was no angel. I desperately wanted to pack our things and leave.

  But I did like the idea of Gib going back to the sawmill and searching uselessly for the key.

  Ella and I sat in Hoss and Sophia’s tiny restaurant at a table by a window. A high, white thumbnail moon perched in the early-evening sky above the mountains, which made astonishing dark silhouettes against the horizon. I couldn’t see the evening star, and strange fears skittered across my nerve endings like a spider. I had no guiding light and I was lost in a wilderness of more than one kind.

  Across the room the only other customers ate peach pie on thick blue plates. They looked like tired hikers—a man and woman, middle-aged, their dusty safari shorts and golf shirts smeared with sweat stains. The Eddie Bauer catalog must have lured them into the Tennessee mountains with visions of outdoorsy glamour. The catalog was probably off in a corner somewhere, giggling.

  Ella picked at a plate of stewed squash, crowder peas, turnip greens, and cornbread, as she watched me anxiously. I sipped from a stoneware mug full of black coffee and ignored a bowl of gelatinous chicken and dumplings. Sophia came into the room smiling and sat down with us. She put a bottle of port wine on the table and three small glasses. “A celebration of your arrival,” she announced with the lilt of a warm Italian vineyard in her voice. Then she told us Hoss had come back from the Hall in a decidedly glum mood. Sophia, who turned information and gossip in her plump hands like a fine pastry, relayed his report that the family was at odds over Ella and me.

  “Olivia wanted to come greet you tonight and bring you both to the Hall as soon as she heard you were here,” Sophia said. “But Gib said no, that you needed to be left alone tonight. That he had upset you. So of course Olivia is not happy about that.”

  I groaned. “I don’t want to take my sister over there and put her in the middle of some Cameron turf war.”

  “Don’t think that way! They are not fighting. Gib would never argue with his great-aunt. She is an elder. But she feels bad for provoking him today, so she lets this other thing—you and Ella staying here tonight—she lets it pass. They have other troubles tonight. Hoss says it’s about Cousin Emory.”

  “Cousin Emory?” Ella said in a conspiratorial whisper. Her eyes lit up with righteous concern. “Who’s Emory?”

  Sophia grunted. “Emory is a greedy bastard.” She trickled deep burgundy liquid into the glasses. “An old bastard, and a wealthy bastard. And so is his son. Joe. A bastard.” She lifted her glass of port. We dutifully lifted ours. “Salute,” she said. “To victory over the bastards.”

  We sipped politely. Ella feigned a swallow, then set her glass down. I hunched forward and studied Sophia eagerly. “Is there trouble with this dastardly Cousin Emory?”

  “Old trouble with new dollar sign
s. He has made a wonderful offer to buy the Hall.”

  “Wonderful?”

  “He has found investors—a company that manages hotels and golf courses. Millions of dollars they’ll pay. The family would keep half-interest. And a hotel company would preserve the Hall and the valley—no changes to the main part! In Emory’s words, ‘Just a few improvements.’ Hah! Condominiums to sell on the mountainsides, and a conference center on the river, and maybe a tiny golf course in the far pastures.”

  “That would be unthinkable,” I said slowly. “It would change the nature of the valley.”

  “Ah, but all beautifully done. And very hard to say no to. Hotel people would manage the Hall. Emory, the bastard, claims the family would be on the board of directors.” She drained her small glass then set it down hard. Her eyes glittered. “No more worries. Everyone gets rich. Enjoys life. No hard work. Just stroll among the guests and smile like an actor and entertain with family stories. A wonderful offer. Emory knows it is seductive. Bastard.”

  “They’ll never do it,” I said fervently. “From what I can see Gib would never—”

  “Oh, but this is no new plan of Emory’s. This is an offer he made to Simon many times. And Simon was tempted to take it.”

  “What?”

  “Simon worried that the family could not always manage the Hall—that maybe no one after him would want to be responsible. He thought Emory’s idea would be the best thing. To make certain the Hall is always cherished and cared for as a historic place. A public place, but beloved.”

  She downed another glass of port. “Simon and Gib argued over this idea last year. That day. The day Simon died.” Her voice trembled.

  “Oh, no.”

  She nodded as she filled her glass again. “Gib was upset with him for talking seriously to Emory. But Simon, he tells Gib, he says, ‘You do not want to take charge. Our sisters have their children, their own work, their own lives. You have your work. But I am tired. Min and I deserve to have vacations. And what about my children? They’ll want to go off to college someday and live somewhere else. Who will take charge when I am gone?’ ”

  Sophia gulped more port. “ ‘Look at the chapel,’ Simon insists. ‘The floor is rotten! I am so busy I cannot take care of it soon enough. How can I let our heritage rot before my eyes because I am too busy and too tired to fix it!’ And so Gib says, ‘Goddamn, I will help you cut new boards today! Come on! I have to catch a plane back to Washington tonight!’ So they go to the sawmill, angry with each other, in a hurry, and poor Minnie goes along trying to calm them down.”

  “Were you and Hoss there that day—”

  “Oh, yes. Oh, yes. We went down there. That is why my husband cannot talk about Simon. He still has nightmares. In his mind he sees it all again and again. What we found in that sawmill is in my mind, too. I drink too much when I think about it.”

  “I’d like for you to tell me about the accident if you can,” I said. “I need to know—” I paused, glancing at Ella, who had stopped spooning mushed cornbread over her turnip greens and was merely pushing crowder peas with her fork. I recognized the signs. She had a weak stomach. “Maybe we can talk about it sometime. Not over dinner.”

  But Sophia, unaware, said, “You ought to know now. You deserve to hear the story. After all, what new misery would have happened today if you had not stopped Gib from running the saw in his condition? He is not a drinker at heart, you know.” She downed another glass of port.

  I swallowed all of mine in one rich, pungent gulp. “Tell me,” I said.

  “I believe I’ll go out back and sit in the swing,” Ella interjected in a small voice. “Excuse me.” She stood. I asked quickly, “You need any company?”

  She managed a smile. “Not if I leave before I hear any more details.” She patted my shoulder then walked across the small restaurant. I watched until she disappeared down a hallway and I heard the back door shut behind her.

  “Your sister has a … a—” Sophia said, patting her fleshy stomach covered in a gold-embossed T-shirt. “Not strong,” Sophia finally managed.

  “No, she just has a soft heart.”

  “Ah! Not like you, eh?”

  “Not like me, eh.”

  “All right, then.” She took a deep breath. “Minnie calls up here from a phone at the sawmill. She is screaming, ‘Help us, help us.’ Hoss and I, we drive quick down into the valley, and the sheriff is coming, too, and the men from the fire department in Hightower—everyone we can call quick.

  “We go to the sawmill, and we run inside.” She paused, cupping her glass in front of her, shutting her eyes, then opening them and staring fixedly at the dark port, like blood. “Simon is cut in half just below his heart. And Gib is holding him.”

  Specks of light danced in front of my eyes. I took a deep breath and cleared my head. “Go on.”

  “Poor Gib. His arm looks like it has almost been torn off below the elbow. His hand—pieces are missing. I see them—pieces of pieces, in the sawdust. He is covered in blood all over. Soaked. Blood and well … Gib looks across the floor at the, the bottom half of Simon’s body, and Gib asks, ‘Who is that?’ because he is out of his mind.”

  “Gib was still conscious?”

  She met my stunned gaze then nodded. “He is lying against a wall with Simon’s—holding Simon’s top half—in his lap. He is cradling Simon with his good arm to keep him safe. And Min is sitting covered in blood beside her husband and Gib, and she has pulled off her shirt—so she is sitting there holding the bloody shirt against Simon’s—under, you know, his ribcage. ‘I have stopped the bleeding, see?’ she keeps saying to us. As if she could not believe or accept that he is gone below the heart. Of course she is out of her mind, too.

  “My dear husband, my poor husband, he goes to Gib and he tries to pull Gib away from Simon’s body, and Gib, you can see, he is not long to keep from fainting. But Gib still holds on until the last, and he says just before he passes out, Gib says, ‘My brother is alive as long as I do not let go. Do not make me let go.’ ”

  “Oh, my God,” I whispered.

  Sophia shook her head. “God was not there, I think. The opposite one was there. Laughing at us all. You know who. I do not speak the name of evil.”

  We sat in dark silence, her face red from port and emotion, my head buzzing with alcohol and her lurid description. “Hey. Another drink,” Sophia said finally.

  “I thought you’d never ask.” She poured and I drank. “He has to cut those boards,” I announced. “Gib. He has to do it. He has no choice.”

  “Oh, no! He cannot. Not alone. And no one in the family can bear to go back in that place. Olivia provoked him today. But she did not mean to make him go to the sawmill.”

  “Provoked him? What did she do?”

  “She and Bea and Min went to the city to hear Emory’s new offer. Olivia only did it to make Gib notice. To make him act. She knew he would not go with them. He will not think of selling to Emory. But if he does not prove he can take Simon’s place there is no other choice. His sister Ruth has her own career, she cannot run things there, and Min and Gib’s baby sister Isabel, they are not leaders.”

  “He tried to prove something today,” I said. “He just picked the wrong place to start.”

  “The sawmill was the only place he could start,” Sophia said wearily.

  I got a little drunk myself, late that evening, with Hoss upstairs asleep and Ella curled up napping on a couch in the living room. Sophia and I sat on her veranda in the postmidnight darkness. A single battered streetlamp cast a small pool of yellowish light on the buildings and gas pumps across the street, but outside the light’s glow I had never seen such pitch-black shadows in my life.

  And in the mountains around us, nothing. Not a single house light. Blackness. The night sang with choruses of tree frogs so loud I had to lean toward Sophia to catch everything she said. She rocked companionably in her wicker chair. I pretended to rock companionably myself while I pumped her for more stories about t
he Camerons. She was a cornucopia of information. My head swam with details I mentally squirreled away for future consideration.

  Suddenly we heard the roar of a vehicle and screeching tires. A large late-model truck swept out of the darkness of the state road then swung into the parking lot. Under the streetlight the truck gleamed an almost iridescent shade of purple. Five big-haired women climbed out of the back bed, laughing. They held a jeweled leash while a large, shaggy gray goat jumped down after them.

  A goat.

  A young man got out of the cab on the driver’s side, and two more women popped from the passenger side. “Waaaaa-hooo!” he yodeled at the top of his lungs, throwing his handsome head back. “I’m bayin’ at the moon ’cause I got stars in my eyes and women on my mind!”

  His women, appropriately enough, applauded. He was lean and long-legged but when he yodeled again his jeans stretched so tight I thought he might split a seam. Or bruise something. Long, coal-black hair dangled in a ponytail down the back of his gray western shirt. A silver earring dangled from his left ear. He wore cowboy boots. One look at his skin, hair, and face said he was probably at least part Indian.

  He bounded over to the placid-looking goat, kissed it between the eyes, then lifted its front hooves to his chest and began swaying in place. He was dancing to unheard music with a goat in the parking lot.

  The women applauded again. They ranged in age from barely above jailbait to barely below menopause. None was particularly gorgeous, a couple were fat and a couple bony, but all wore tight jeans or tight, short skirts, shirts with colorful western piping, western boots, and plenty of makeup.

  “That is Carter’s harem,” Sophia explained. “They go with him to Knoxville and dance at the big nightclubs. You know, square dance. Line dance.”

  “He doesn’t look like he’s got much rhythm left tonight,” I noted dryly. “Either he’s drunk or the goat’s leading.”