Native

CHAPTER ONE

Allegheny Mountains

Coleton, Pennsylvania

___

ANNIE

SUMMER 2002

We were just girls when Clare and I first met and until I moved to California hardly a day passed that we didn’t see each other. By all rights we shouldn’t have been friends. Town girls never spoke to kids from the Holler. We were teenagers before seeing her outside the classroom and then only at dances. At first she came alone wearing gaudy dresses out of thrift shops or Walmart and her hair hung down her back in snarls. She stayed on her feet all night, asking boys to dance and when she wasn't dancing she stood in a corner and glared at the crowd, drinking a coke we were sure was spiked. Rumor had it that she ended up in the back seat of a car on every date. Even Ronnie Black, the football star, brought her to a dance once. He held her hand in the crook of his arm and walked into the gym smiling defiantly at anyone who looked his way. And we all did, of course. But we never spoke to Clare. Or at least I didn't until the year I turned fourteen.

It was a summer as hot as this one was turning out to be only that year the rains came. Nearly every afternoon, clouds, low and heavy, moved in and the rain lashed down, pelted the ground for a furious fifteen minutes before the sun came back out and the world steamed with swampy heat.

No surprise we discovered Crab’s Eddy. Cat Creek flowed down the hills and through the Holler, eddied and widened, forming a swimming hole next to the Norwood farm. The teenagers from Coleton spent the afternoons there. It was the gathering place‑‑‑unless you were a Raymond or a Blanchard or anyone else from the Holler. They might live next to the creek but some unwritten rule kept them away while we were there. Except once. Three boys with dark hair and eyes stepped out of the woods and stood at the water's edge. Caught by surprise our group stopped its chatter long enough to take in their rangy bodies and uncertain stillness then we turned our heads and refused to look at them. Even so, we knew the instant they gave it up and slipped back into the trees. One of the bolder girls licked her lips and sighed. “I heard none of those boys are virgins past the age of twelve.”

“Like a little of that would you, Shawna?” said Ronnie Black, moving his hand closer to her leg. She stared at him hard and said, “Piss off.”

Piss off? No one told Ronnie Black to piss off. Not Ronnie Black the football star with the blond hair and blue eyes. Yet he seemed neither surprised nor angered by Shawna’s behavior. He reached out and took hold of her ankle. She jerked her foot away, grabbed her towel, jumped on her bike and pedaled off, her tires spinning dirt and rocks while we watched in stunned silence.

“What the hell did you do to her?”

Ronnie rolled over on his stomach. “Beats the hell out of me.”

At fourteen, I was one of the youngest. And, unlike Shawna, I was what grown-ups politely referred to as a late bloomer. I didn't fit in with this crowd of sixteen and seventeen year-olds, yet nothing would have kept me away. Spending the summer in the house alone with Mom was unthinkable and inviting friends over was a risk. But there were always kids at the Eddy, stretched out on towels, a boom box playing. You didn’t have to wonder or wait for a phone call; you could count on company, lots of it. I rode my bike along the twisting nine miles to it every afternoon, the sun beating on my back.

Until one afternoon when I swung my bicycle off the macadam road onto the grass path leading through the trees and there were no voices floating toward me. No deep male laughter, no giggles from the girls, no boom box, nothing. I hopped off my bike and went in on foot. It was hot as ever, and sweat rolled off the small of my back into my jeans and bikini bottom. I came into the clearing and there were three boys standing to their waists in the Eddy. No girls. Just three boys: Donnie Lepley, Jim Starkey and Ronnie Black. All football players, all good looking. I thought about leaving, but they’d seen me so instead, I shook my towel onto the beach and settled on it, poised and tense as a rabbit. I slipped off my jeans and busied myself with the sun tan lotion. As I rubbed, the boys came to the edge of the bank pushing through the water with their strides. I found it hard to keep my eyes from the muscled legs, the hair that clung wet and soft along their thighs. I lowered my eyes and concentrated on the lotion.

Ronnie Black shook his towel and stretched out beside me so close I could feel the air stir when he moved.

“Let me do that,” he said.

“Do what?”

“I’ll put some lotion on your back.”

“No, that's okay.”

Ronnie laughed. “What are you afraid of?”

“Nothing.”

“Yes, you are.” Donnie and Jim splashed out of the water, stood dripping in front of us. Donnie shook himself, flicked the cool water on me. They settled onto their sides, didn't even bother with towels. Next to me, Jim propped his head in his hand and I could see the indentations the rocks made on his arm. Ronnie put his foot against his chest and shoved. “I was here first.”

Jim grabbed his foot and twisted. “Pecker head,” he said, but it was without feeling. The three boys stretched out on their backs, their hands behind their heads, staring at the sky. I rolled onto my stomach and laid my head on my folded arms, pretending to concentrate on my tan. I could feel the bottom of my bathing suit where it crept up on the left side, Ronnie’s side. I held still willing myself not to reach back and pull it into place and draw attention to that part of me.

It was Ronnie who suggested the walk into the Holler. We’d never been, of course. It was an impossible idea; no one from town ever went there. Yet as soon as the words were spoken, I knew we would go, that we had to go, to have stayed at the Eddy then would have meant defeat.

I soon regretted not changing into my jeans. The under growth was thick, scratched my legs and sawed at my ankles. As we continued walking, a car with the grass growing up through the floor appeared in front of a trailer. In another patch there was a truck with the windows shot out and in another two buses faced the road. The houses became closer together and were smaller; sometimes no more than a box covered with tarpaper and a stovepipe coming out of the roof. Suddenly cars and trucks lined both sides of the road, bumper to bumper. Many had weeds growing out the windows. There were no yards now. Bedsprings, bed frames, molding, blown furniture, sinks, cans, broken bicycles, rusted out wash tubs, toilets, car parts; anything that might one day be needed and could be stolen and brought here filled every available space. Wild, resilient brush, high as your shoulder, grew between the cracks. Here the homes slid into the ground on one side and had become shapeless, their endings and the beginnings of tacked-on vans and wrecked buses indistinct. Worn paths to the doors and smoke rising slowly from the stovepipes, even in this heat, made it clear that people lived here. Ragged curtains flapped at a few windows and hopeless, bony dogs stood watching us, their chains ending who knew where.

On one of the porches someone rocked in a chair. His skin and clothes, the same washed out gray as the building, receded into the shadows. Next to the house heavy carcasses hung in the trees. We gazed at the blue marbled meat hanging rock still. Jim touched my arm and without speaking we all turned and went back down the road.

“What was that?” he whispered, when we were out of sight of the house.

“Venison,” said Donnie.

“Are you sure that was deer meat?” said Jim. It looked awfully big to be deer. “More like beef to me.”

“Could be beef,” said Donnie.

“I didn't know people in the Holler raised beef.”

“They don't. But some of the farmers in the valley do.”

“And they buy it and butcher it themselves?”

“Well, they butcher it. But I wouldn’t say they bother buying it.”

We walked in silence for awhile. Even Ronnie Black didn’t know what to say until he pointed to the rise of Cat Mountain. “If we hike up there we might be able to look down and see the whole Holler.” As we climbed, I thought about those dark haired boys that had emerged at the edge of the Eddy. Did they have beds? Running water? Did they stay warm in the winter? I tried to picture their mothers preparing food, what the kitchens looked like, and couldn’t. I wanted to peer in the windows and watch those who would steal other people's cows and butcher and eat them go about their daily lives. There was no pity to my curiosity. People who lived like this were capable of anything.

As we headed up the mountain, we entered another woods. The going was rocky and steep and as we climbed the trees became bigger and the air cooled. The climb made my legs ache. I toyed with the idea of going back then thought of the old man on the porch and the hanging, still meat.

Ronnie looked back and said, “Just a little farther, Annie.”

I steadied my breathing and leaned into the mountain in order to gain purchase. Grabbing onto low limbs I was able to pull myself along. We climbed another half mile.

“There,” said Ronnie. He pointed to an overhang made by a huge rock. Under it the ground was level and thick with leaves blown in from last fall. It was much darker even than the surrounding woods and the air was damp from the wet floor. I rested on one foot then the other, glad not to be climbing. I rubbed my arms against the chill.

“Look at that sky,” said Ronnie. “We'd better stay here until after the rain.” He watched me as he said this. Jim and Donnie hunkered down.

“I don't think it's going to rain,” I said even though heavy clouds were moving right into the mountain.

“Sure it is,” said Ronnie. He sat down next to where I stood. “Have a seat, Annie.” He patted the ground at my feet.

“The ground is wet.”

Ronnie took my wrist. “Sit here then.” He tugged me with a jerk onto his lap. The warmth of his skin and arms around me was suddenly, strangely comforting. None-the-less, I pushed away, plopped onto the ground. He looked amused.

“Boy, the ground is damp,” he said. “My suit is getting wet. Maybe I'll just take it off.”

Three sets of eyes swung towards him yet Ronnie looked only at me. “You've got goose bumps,” he said. He put his hand on my shoulder. “You're shivering.” Then very deliberately he pulled down the strap of my bikini top.

I tugged it from his grasp. “Quit it!” I said. I started to rise, but Ronnie took hold of the bikini bottom, and I dropped onto the ground again.

“Cut it out,” said Donnie.

“It's okay,” answered Ronnie, and before I could move, before I even knew his intention, he took my hand and shoved it inside his suit.

“You like that?” And then with the deftness of the natural athlete, he grabbed the front of my bathing suit and yanked it down. The air against my bare skin made my nipples hard.

The other two boys' faces went rigid. I looked at them, one and then the other. I looked as long as it took to see which way my future lay and when their eyes dropped from mine, I knew.

I struggled to my feet. But I was too slow, hampered as I was by the straps of my suit. Ronnie only had to reach up, to grab the seat of my pants. We were poised this way when Clare, on a painted pony, rode into the little clearing.

“What's going on?” she said all innocence.

“Grab her.”

Jim reached for the pony's bridle.

Ronnie jumped up, abandoning me and lunged at Clare. He grabbed her wrist and ankle, meaning to pull her from the horse. Her face never lost its bland, curious expression, only her eyes deepened as, quick and supple as a snake, she leaned over and bit his hand. And bit him hard she must have for he bellowed like a bull, let go of her instantly and when he leapt back, blood bubbled along his fingers. Clare reached toward me. I had managed to get my bits of bathing suit back in place. I grabbed onto her hand and she pulled me behind her. Jim still held the bridle. Clare flicked the reins, a polite reminder that was all. Obedient, he let go.

I was shaking hard and held on to her waist as the pony walked sedately through the woods. She didn't even bother to hurry. Following no path, she wound her way through the trees. We ducked as we went under low branches, my forehead sometimes touching her shoulder. I focused my mind on the pony's haunches as he stepped under himself his back legs straining. A dusty sharp aroma lifted from his sides and I felt the hair, sticky with sweat, against my bare legs. I couldn’t bring myself to speak and we rode in silence.

I didn't go back to Crab's Eddy that summer. Even so, I heard when Ronnie Black went to the hospital. In a few days the Band-Aids he used couldn't hide the spreading redness, didn't begin to contain the swelling. When the chills and fever started, he carried his ballooned and darkening hand to his mother.

She promptly put him in the car and drove him to the hospital where Dr. Ismail told the family it was doubtful the boy would keep his hand.

“It looks like a human bite. Nothing filthier.”

Mr. and Mrs. Black watched Ronnie become delirious, toss and turn and vomit on hospital sheets just a shade paler than he. He kept his hand as it turned out, but he never grabbed a girl again. For the rest of his life his fingers were frozen in the shape of a claw, the hand and wrist withered where the infection had eaten away the tissue.

Shortly after Ronnie was released from the hospital his father drove his new Buick into the Holler, went as far as the road then left the car and walked to Clare’s house. No one knows what happened there, but when Mr. Black returned to the Buick it was stripped clean as a whistle: tires, battery, even the side windows were gone. The man couldn't prove a thing. Not about his car, not about his boy.

As for me, instead of swimming, I spent the afternoons farther up the mountains riding horses through the woods with Clare.