The Green Rolling Hills Read online

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Copyright © 2008, 2012 by Victor J. Banis

  “The Reckoning,” “Metamorphosis,” “The Thief” Copyright © 2008 by Bev Rees; “Rosie and Mac” Copyright © 2008 by Sally Brinkmann; “Dear Anne Landers: Excerpts from a Novel in Progress,” Copyright © 2008 by Craig Tucker; “AIDS Diaries—Francel,” “Day Lights, Night Lights,” “Hob Knobbin’” Copyright © 2008 by Eve Birch; “Pappy’s Angels,” “Big Easys,” “A Wildwood Flounder” Copyright © 2008 by Leigh Horne; “The Azalea Quartet: An Excerpt from a Novel in Progress” Copyright © 2008 by Trish Rudder; “The Child Bride of Lester Cooley,” “The Shiny Black Car,” “Love in a Lobster Pot” Copyright © 2008 by Calvert Estill; “Harai” Copyright © 2008 by Christine Kaye; “Precious Child: A Memoir of Healing” Copyright © 2008 by Wanda R. Riggle

  Published by Wildside Press LLC

  www.wildsidebooks.com

  INTRODUCTION

  Shortly after moving to Martinsburg, West Virginia, in late 2004, I joined a local writers’ group. I soon discovered that many of these writers shared a common style—not a common voice, exactly, since it was quickly apparent that each of them had his or her own writing “voice”—but, they all had something that I only gradually came to recognize as a West Virginia voice too.

  Just as the locals speak with their own version of a Southern accent, a drawl that is clearly not Northern, but is less pronounced than what one finds in the deeper South—a soft, almost a musical way of speaking—I found too that West Virginia writers “speak” in a manner that is very much their own.

  Which is not to say, however, that they don’t have individual voices as well. Christine Kaye’s haunting Harai and Bev Rees’s frightening The Reckoning share a sense of the horror wrought by man’s arrogant interference with nature, but they are miles apart stylistically.

  Craig Tucker’s Dear Ann Landers, Wanda Riggle’s Precious Child, and Trish Rudder’s Azalea Quartet all deal with the tribulations of childhood, and all are touching, but beyond those essential facts, they are not at all alike.

  Love is the common denominator in Leigh Horne’s Pappy’s Angels and Eve Birch’s AIDS Diaries—Francel, the sort of love that transcends pain and loss, but the stories otherwise have almost nothing in common.

  The wry humor Calvert Estill displays in The Child Bride of Lester Cooley is light years away from the take-no-prisoners hilarity of Sally Brinkman’s Rosie and Mac, but both are funny indeed, and—here is my point—funny in a distinctly West Virginia way. It is difficult to think of either being written anywhere else.

  Really, as I said at the beginning, all of these stories are utterly different from one another and, at the same time, uniquely alike in the West Virginia sensibility that they share. And all of them, let me say, eminently readable.

  After a time, it occurred to me that it would be a pleasure to see some of these voices assembled where they could be enjoyed both singly and jointly—thus was born this anthology.

  It has been a great pleasure for me to work on this and to savor the writings of these talented individuals, and to know that in some small way I was preserving them for generations of readers to come. I am confident that they, too, will savor them.

  —Victor J. Banis

  Martinsburg, West Virginia

  THE RECKONING, by Bev Rees

  They had always gone to the island in August, long before the children were born. Hedy and Robert Brewer hadn’t married until their mid-thirties, and from the beginning everything had gone smoothly. There were holidays in Europe, a lovely old Victorian house, and the charming cottage on the island.

  And now? Two children who tanned well. Alicia, age five, and Robbie. Ah, Robbie: Robert Casswell Brewer the third. A handsome and precocious four-year-old. They had planned for the children to be close in age; Hedy had been anxious to get it over with and get back to the gym and back to the figure she had sacrificed for motherhood. And back she got, snapped back like a rubber band, to the lithe young woman she intended to be for the rest of her life.

  It was a shame about the cottage though. They only got to use it in August, and a few weekends in the spring and fall. As long as the ferry was still running. But that was just about the extent of their regrets.

  The cottage was shipshape when they arrived, thanks to their faithful house cleaner, Zelda. She also doubled as a maid when they entertained, which had to be arranged around her schedule at the Rip Tide.

  They settled right into hurricane lamp dinners on the terrace facing the ocean: steaks on the grill and a salad, for neither of them was into cooking; except that Robert, on occasion, enjoyed fixing rather elaborate breakfasts. This menu was varied by ferry rides to the mainland for seafood.

  * * * *

  The Brewers were good parents, and spent as much time with their children as their careers would allow. Every summer they made sandcastles for them, extravaganzas really, and the children decorated them with shells and bits of sea glass. And they always got raves from passing walkers. The beach was unguarded on this more sparsely settled area of the island; therefore, the children could play in the water only when the tide was out and gentle waves rolled in. Every evening after dinner they biked to a small island store and bought ice cream cones, which they ate as they sat in weathered rockers on a narrow porch.

  So, though the daily news was full of trouble in the Middle East, threatening famines and civil wars in Africa, they left that all behind and felt perfectly secure as they stared out at the moonlit ocean.

  * * * *

  About two weeks into their vacation, something strange began to happen. At night an eerie glow quivered across the horizon.

  “How weird, Robert,” Hedy said. “Did you ever see anything as weird as that?”

  “I’m sure there’s a logical explanation, Unless, of course, we’ve been thrown back into a time warp, and the Vikings with their torches are on their way.”

  “Maybe it’s extraterrestrials,” Robbie said cheerfully.

  “You know we don’t believe in that sort of thing, Robbie. It’s probably just an easily explained phenomenon, like a swath of phosphorus floating out there on the ocean. Like the phosphorous we saw on the lake in Nova Scotia when we went canoeing after dark. Remember?”

  “Could it be northern lights?” Hedy asked. “I remember seeing them on the South Orange Reservation when I was a little girl.”

  “Not any that I’ve ever seen. But it’s probably some simple phenomenon such as that.”

  Alicia said, “I’m tired, Mama.”

  “Yes. Come on Robbie, time for beddy-bye.”

  “Don’t want to,” Robbie said. “I want to lie on the sand and look up at the sky. I want to search for extraterrestrials.”

  “Robbie!” his father said.

  Robbie pouted and threatened to throw a fit, but he took his mother’s outstretched hand instead.

  The next morning the sky was overcast and a heavy fog was rising from the ocean. Robert made a batch of blueberry pancakes, and they ate them on the porch. By eleven the sun was breaking through, and eventually it cleared up. The tide was going out. The afternoon ocean would be perfect for the children.

  At three, Hedy roused herself, and went to get the children into their swimsuits. Alicia ran to the water first, Robbie’s swimsuit had gone missing.

  Alicia came running back. “Mommy, Mommy, the water’s really warm and there’s seaweed all over the place, and it’s really icky.”

  And sure enough, there was a deluge of seaweed, that bronzy colored seaweed with many branches, called rockweed by the more science-minded islanders, the kind with blisters that children like to squeeze and pop. This struck Hedy as unusual. Large amounts seldom washed up exce
pt during Northeasters, and even then, not in quantities such as this. She gazed at it churning in the gentle waves.

  “I don’t want to go in, Mommy,” Alicia said.

  “Oh, silly, it’s not that bad. Come on, give me your hand. We’ll pretend we’re going to some magical kingdom where the mermaids live.”

  And that was the other thing. The moment Hedy stepped into the water she realized the temperature was wrong. All the previous week, it had been brisk, almost uncomfortable, and now? It felt like bath water.

  “Come on Alicia, let’s sit down and let the waves wash over us. Isn’t it nice and warm?”

  “I don’t like it. It’s icky!”

  “Oh, don’t be such an old spoilsport, Pumpkin.”

  Alicia sat down gingerly. Hedy felt like they were sitting in a large pot of vegetable soup, but of course, she didn’t say that to her agitated little daughter.

  Robbie came running down the beach in a pair of cotton underpants, his bathing suit apparently more elusive than imagined. He looked around surprised, and then delighted. He fell to his knees and pulled the seaweed to him, throwing it in the air, and laughing as it landed on his head. Alicia, turning around to watch him, cried, “Oh ick!”

  “Where’s Daddy?” Hedy asked.

  “He’s with his laptop,” Robbie said, and repeated his joyous exercise again.

  Robert eventually came down to the beach, put up an umbrella and opened two sand chairs. The children played at the water’s edge with their pails and shovels, in an area their mother had cleared of seaweed.

  Hedy sat down next to Robert. “I thought you promised not to do any work while we were here this time,” she scolded.

  “I was just going over a couple of briefs, loose ends so to speak. You don’t realize how hard it is to pick up again if you completely neglect it.”

  “That’s what your juniors are for, isn’t it? Maybe you’ve got to learn to delegate more.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yackety-yack.”

  Hedy sighed.

  Robert opened a Sam Larsen paperback that pricked at her literary sensibilities no end, but she knew before they were married, that he was more a legal than a literary animal.

  She allowed ten minutes to evaporate. “Robert, you don’t notice anything different, do you?”

  “Different? Oh yeah, there’s some seaweed on the beach. And I’ve got to admit it’s unusually hot.”

  “Look up and down the beach. It’s ankle deep with seaweed, right up to the high tide line. The water’s abnormally warm. I think something’s wrong.”

  “Oh please, Hedy, let me read, okay? This is supposed to be a vacation. Let’s not manufacture problems.”

  The rest of the day went smoothly. Their beach-side dinners were long drawn-out affairs, then the bike ride to get ice cream. It always surprised them how long the evening hours were without television, and even the children grew tired of so much sandy solitude. It was already well past eight when Hedy told Robert to go ahead and take his walk. It was her turn to bathe the kids and get them into bed. When he returned she’d start out for her walk.

  Hedy had walked about a quarter of a mile, when she met several fellow cottage owners eager to comment on the seaweed. None of them seemed in the least concerned, but fretful perhaps, that the beach was such a mess on their allotted time. Hedy walked on for another half mile or so, before she turned around. It was almost dark now and she could see the blinking of the lighthouse in the distance. Up ahead a group of walkers were blocking her way, staring out at the horizon. A familiar dog jumped up against her in greeting, and then she saw Jean Marsden.

  “What’s up?”

  “Oh hi, Hedy. Look. Sparks shooting up in spots all along the horizon. Is that crazy or what?

  Hedy focused, and sure enough, waves of sparks were shooting up like fireworks in places. “My God,” she said, “what could it be?”

  Jean’s husband, an unflappable fellow, smiled. “It’s probably just an oil spill on fire.”

  “Oh,” another woman said, “I sure pray to God the oil doesn’t drift this way.”

  Jean’s husband was reassuring. “I wouldn’t worry. It’s way far out there. Distances such as these are always deceptive.”

  “It sure is pretty though, isn’t it?” A woman in a purple caftan said, adjusting her glasses, and picking up her restive Yorkie. “What’s wrong with you tonight, Bitsy?”

  The Marsden dog was running around in circles, whining.

  When Hedy got back to the cottage, Robert was engrossed in his laptop. She decided it was better not to call attention to the puzzling display.

  A few mornings later, the sky had a funny cast to it: a kind of bronzy green, but very bright. Hedy stepped out to the terrace and the seaweed was still there, but it appeared that the tide had gone out, and had not come in again. The heat was truly oppressive, and she realized it was dead quiet. No sea gulls circling and laughing. No quavering notes of the redwings emanating from the bayberry bushes.

  Her eyes focused on some objects scattered over the sandbar. A funny feeling clutched her stomach. She slipped into her flip-flops and began to walk. At the high-water mark the seaweed had dried out, and she became aware of a great buzzing: swarms of green-headed marsh flies. She waved them away, and started out over the sand bar. When she got far enough out to see, what she found filled her with horror. The objects were birds. Shore birds of all kinds lying there limply, tangled in seaweed. Some dying, some dead. Expiring clams everywhere, shriveling in their gaping shells, and flies hovered greedily above them. A fetid smell of death, almost visible, hung over the sandbar.

  Suddenly she was aware of a fiery itch, and remembered too late: marsh flies were the Draculas of the fly world.

  Back at the cottage the rest of the family was up, and Robert was dropping Pop Tarts into the toaster. “I see you’ve already been out. How’s the weather?”

  “Not good. Robert, listen to me. There’s an army of marsh flies out there on the drying seaweed. The kids will have to stay on the porch.”

  “Another calamity? Dear, dear.” He turned aside to pour himself a cup of coffee.

  “Believe me. It’s not going to be a beach day. Look at me, Robert. I’m covered with welts. You know how awful their bites are.”

  Robert could not deny the welts all over his wife. “Okay then,” he said, “we’ll go over to the mainland, have lunch, and play miniature golf or something.”

  Hedy went into the bedroom and turned on the radio. All the scheduled programs seemed to be in progress.

  A malevolent sky hovered low and glowered all day. The air was perfectly still, heavy, almost as if there was no air at all. And one could not ignore the peculiar smell, faint but unmistakable. Like sulfur mixed with the smell of rotting protein.

  They escaped to the mainland. Lunch, and then, for the third time, The Lion King. They spent an hour in a park, before taking the ferry back to the island. The ferryman said, “Real peculiar weather, ain’t it?”

  There was no sunset. The bizarre looking sky just got murkier. After a long drawn out evening, the children were finally in bed and their parents went out to the terrace. And what they saw defied the imagination. Far out from the land, huge waves were breaking, spewing flames like angry mythical dragons. Sparks flickered against the inky sky.

  “Stay calm,” Robert advised. “It’s just some curious natural occurrence. There’s simply no other plausible explanation. I could use another drink, how about you?”

  Hedy took the glass he handed her. “Something’s wrong,” she said calmly, trying to ignore the telltale trembling of the ice cubes. “Something’s terribly wrong. They should have listened to those crazy environmentalists. Maybe they knew what they were talking about. What the hell do politicians know about such things? Maybe the ozone hole has suddenly split wide open.” Something occurred to her. “The children, Robert. What are we going to do? Maybe we should go back to Boston.”

  “You’re literate, you’re smart, you kno
w better. Please, Hedy. Just pull yourself together. We’re going to stay here and enjoy our vacation. It’s bound to straighten itself out. Nothing out of the ordinary has happened.”

  “The ocean on fire is not out of the ordinary?” Hedy’s level of hysteria was rising. “That’s so like you, Robert. You prefer to think nothing is happening!”

  * * * *

  The next morning things were no better. The children resigned themselves to remaining inside with their paper and crayons. The phone was ringing off the hook. Marsh flies were impervious to Deet, and cottage owners imprisoned on well-screened porches were desperate for information.

  Robert called Boston and talked to his father. “He says they are okay, except the electricity has been going on and off. Something about sporadic outages due to increasing demand. He says it is dreadfully hot, and we should stay where we are. You know, with the ocean breezes.”

  Hedy frowned, knowing that sarcasm would not make a dent in her husband’s ironclad optimism. “The thermometer is already at ninety-six, and it’s not yet ten o’clock. It must be awful for them in that apartment with no air conditioning.”

  “Don’t worry. The federal government is aware of the situation. Dad says they’ve been assured that everything will be back to normal in—the morning.”

  * * * *

  Leona Mercie came barreling up the path. She was a sweet, sincere woman, but often overzealous.

  “Why, Leona,” Robert said with false cheerfulness. “Come in quickly. Mind the plague of flies. Well now, maybe you can tell us what’s going on.”

  “A plague is right,” Leona said. “And what is going on is the end of the world. The world will end in tribulation and fire. That’s what the Bible says. And look around you.”

  “That’s what you think, huh?”

  “That’s what I know. I’ve got to get around to as many islanders as I can, and beg them to repent. Yes, the Second Coming is at hand, my friends, and the Lord is coming. It is not too late to be counted along with the sheep, and I warn you, the fate of the goats will not be pretty.”