Foggy Mountain Breakdown and Other Stories Read Online Free Page B

tacky!” she sighed.
    He helped her up the flat rock steps to the porch, and set the suitcases down by Granddad’s whittling bench. “Do you want me to carry you over the threshold?” he asked Elissa as he pushed open the door.
    She peered into the darkness and shuddered. “Are there snakes in there?”
    “No. If you’ll wait out here, I’ll light the oil lamp so you can see.”
    “Oh, all right. Just hurry up!”
    He could hear her pacing outside as he fumbled with the chimney of the oil lamp Whilden had left on the table. Finally he succeeded in putting the match to the lamp wick, and the small room glowed in lamplight. He saw that it had been freshly swept—although the window was still streaked with dirt—and a brace of logs had been carefully arranged in the fireplace. A clean quilt in a churn-dasher pattern covered the few shreds of upholstery left on the old sofa. On the table near the woodstove, Whilden had left a jar of coffee, a box of cornflakes, some evaporated milk, and—for decoration—red-berried pyracantha branches in a Mason jar.
    “You’d think somebody would have cleaned this placeup,” snapped Elissa in the doorway. She turned her head slowly to study the room, her eyebrows raised.
    Carl brought in the suitcases from the front porch. “The bedroom is in there,” he said, leading the way. “I can heat you some well water on the stove if you’d like to wash. First, though, I’m going to get this fire going in the fireplace.”
    Elissa sat down on the couch to watch. Carl knelt on the stone hearth, rearranging some of the smaller sticks. “See if you can find some newspapers,” he told her.
    “Newspapers?”
    “Yes. Or leaves. Anything I can use to get this fire started.”
    Elissa began to wander around, looking behind the couch and poking in drawers in the kitchen part of the room. “How about this old calendar on the wall?” she called.
    Carl turned to look at the wall decoration: a 1945 calendar with a drawing of a Hying Fortress against an unfurled flag. “No,” he said. “Not that.”
    With a sigh of exasperation, Elissa continued to search. “Well, it certainly wasn’t one of your ancestors who discovered fire, Carl! Why don’t you just strike a match and let the logs burn?”
    He put a match to one of the smaller sticks, holding it there until it burned his finger, but although the stick glowed tentatively for a few moments, it faded to darkness again. He reached in his pocket for another box of matches.
    “Carl, I found some little pieces of cloth. Will they do?”
    Elissa held up four short strips of black crêpe. “Are these from a quilt?” she asked.
    “Bring them here.” He took them from her outstretched hand. “I haven’t seen these since Grandma died. They’re crêpe for the beehives.”
    “The beehives?”
    “Yes. For mourning. You have to tell the bees when there has been a death in the family, or else they’ll leavethe hive and start one somewhere else. When Grandma died, Uncle Mose hung these black streamers on each beehive when he told the bees.”
    “You’re teasing me!” Elissa protested.
    “No. When somebody’s gone, you have to tell the bees they’re not coming back.”
    Elissa shook her head. “There are some strange goings-on in your mountains,” she said.
    Carl tucked one of the streamers away in the pocket of his jeans. He looked at her for a moment. “Well,” he said at last, “I guess I’d better start this fire.”
    She answered the tone, rather than the words. “Carl! Are you angry with me?”
    “Guess I’ll go out and gather up some leaves for kindling.” He started to get up.
    “Carl! Please don’t go yet!” There was a catch in her voice, and she began to pace, not looking at him as she spoke. “I understand about your wanting me to see where you grew up and all, but I’m not used to this! I just didn’t know what to expect! I mean, you said
cabin
, but this isn’t like the cabins I’ve stayed in on ski