Anyway, I didn't want to dampen the news about the baby. Will it be a boy or a girl?"
Nora Bonesteel shook her head. "I only see things in flashes every now and again. Most things aren't meant for us to know beforehand. Trust the Lord, girl."
"It's just that I'm thirty-eight, and I worry in case the baby isn't quite normal . . . You're right ... It takes wonderful courage to care for a handicapped child, and I'm no saint. I'd go insane."
"Trust—"
"Trust the Lord. That's what Will would tell me, too, isn't it?" She tried to remember if she'd prayed about the baby, about its being all right when it was born.
"I hope Will Bruce would tell you not to dwell on it," Nora replied. "If you keep this up, you'll be mighty dull company for the next six months."
"Well, if I shut up about it, will you make me something for the baby? Booties or a little blanket or something? You make such beautiful things."
Nora Bonesteel seemed intent upon her knitting for a moment or two.
"It's due in April," Laura added. "No rush."
The old woman carefully untangled a knot of crimson wool. "I will make you something for the child you will have in April."
As boys, Tavy Annis and Taw McBryde had been fishing buddies. Now, half a century later, they had renewed the custom, still fishing at the same bend in the Little Dove River, five hundred feet downhill from the Clinchfield Railroad tracks that hugged the side of the wooded mountain. It was their favorite spot, not perhaps because the fishing was any better in the rock-studded depths of the river bend, but because the prospect of treasure lay in every cast of the fishing line.
The boys had grown up listening to tales from Taw's Uncle Henry, a railroad man from Pigeon Roost. That sharp curve on the tracks above the river bend had caused more train wrecks than you could shake a stick at, he told the boys. In the old days, when trains were the country's bloodstream, there'd be a wreck on that stretch of track every couple of years, sending a freight train full of coal and timber into the gravel-bottomed shallows of the Little Dove River. The train crews mostly survived, Uncle Henry assured them, but they had a struggle getting out, and they'd shed shoes and clothes to swim for it. That's where the treasure came in. The railroad salvaged the coal and timber, but what stayed at the bottom of the Little Dove were the heavy gold watches the railroad men used to wear. Why, there must be at least a dozen of them down there, Henry declared. And since gold didn't rust or rot, or do anything except get more valuable all the time, think what a fortune you'd have if you could get those watches up out of the river. For years Tavy Annis and
Taw McBryde fished the river bend, hoping for gold instead of trout with every cast of the line. They had spent the treasure a thousand time in daydreams as adolescents, buying phantom Daisy air rifles and ten-speed bikes. But the Clinchfield gold stayed buried in sand and gravel under the currents of the river, and only the dreams dried up.
They were fishing again now; same spot, same river, but many things had changed since the old days. They were sixty-five now, with little in common except childhood memories. Nearly half a century ago, they had reached their own bend in the river, and from then on their lives had taken different paths.
Tavy had stayed on in Wake County to farm with his daddy in Dark Hollow, and he'd been there ever since. He was lean and leathery from a lifetime of outdoor work, and he wore overalls and work boots, the uniform of his trade. He was a widower now, deacon in the church, member of the local civic club, but somewhere in there still was the kid that had helped Taw McBryde chase the Everett sisters through the meadow waving a blacksnake over his head like a bullwhip. They were twelve then.
In a long-forgotten photo album in Tavy's attic, there was a faded black-and-white picture of Taw at sixteen, raw-boned in a shirt and tie and making
Nora Bonesteel shook her head. "I only see things in flashes every now and again. Most things aren't meant for us to know beforehand. Trust the Lord, girl."
"It's just that I'm thirty-eight, and I worry in case the baby isn't quite normal . . . You're right ... It takes wonderful courage to care for a handicapped child, and I'm no saint. I'd go insane."
"Trust—"
"Trust the Lord. That's what Will would tell me, too, isn't it?" She tried to remember if she'd prayed about the baby, about its being all right when it was born.
"I hope Will Bruce would tell you not to dwell on it," Nora replied. "If you keep this up, you'll be mighty dull company for the next six months."
"Well, if I shut up about it, will you make me something for the baby? Booties or a little blanket or something? You make such beautiful things."
Nora Bonesteel seemed intent upon her knitting for a moment or two.
"It's due in April," Laura added. "No rush."
The old woman carefully untangled a knot of crimson wool. "I will make you something for the child you will have in April."
As boys, Tavy Annis and Taw McBryde had been fishing buddies. Now, half a century later, they had renewed the custom, still fishing at the same bend in the Little Dove River, five hundred feet downhill from the Clinchfield Railroad tracks that hugged the side of the wooded mountain. It was their favorite spot, not perhaps because the fishing was any better in the rock-studded depths of the river bend, but because the prospect of treasure lay in every cast of the fishing line.
The boys had grown up listening to tales from Taw's Uncle Henry, a railroad man from Pigeon Roost. That sharp curve on the tracks above the river bend had caused more train wrecks than you could shake a stick at, he told the boys. In the old days, when trains were the country's bloodstream, there'd be a wreck on that stretch of track every couple of years, sending a freight train full of coal and timber into the gravel-bottomed shallows of the Little Dove River. The train crews mostly survived, Uncle Henry assured them, but they had a struggle getting out, and they'd shed shoes and clothes to swim for it. That's where the treasure came in. The railroad salvaged the coal and timber, but what stayed at the bottom of the Little Dove were the heavy gold watches the railroad men used to wear. Why, there must be at least a dozen of them down there, Henry declared. And since gold didn't rust or rot, or do anything except get more valuable all the time, think what a fortune you'd have if you could get those watches up out of the river. For years Tavy Annis and
Taw McBryde fished the river bend, hoping for gold instead of trout with every cast of the line. They had spent the treasure a thousand time in daydreams as adolescents, buying phantom Daisy air rifles and ten-speed bikes. But the Clinchfield gold stayed buried in sand and gravel under the currents of the river, and only the dreams dried up.
They were fishing again now; same spot, same river, but many things had changed since the old days. They were sixty-five now, with little in common except childhood memories. Nearly half a century ago, they had reached their own bend in the river, and from then on their lives had taken different paths.
Tavy had stayed on in Wake County to farm with his daddy in Dark Hollow, and he'd been there ever since. He was lean and leathery from a lifetime of outdoor work, and he wore overalls and work boots, the uniform of his trade. He was a widower now, deacon in the church, member of the local civic club, but somewhere in there still was the kid that had helped Taw McBryde chase the Everett sisters through the meadow waving a blacksnake over his head like a bullwhip. They were twelve then.
In a long-forgotten photo album in Tavy's attic, there was a faded black-and-white picture of Taw at sixteen, raw-boned in a shirt and tie and making
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