As their voices became stronger, the animals filed in to watch.
"I understand that, but if you don't have money, that's your choice. You were born with many advantages, as was I. Neither of us was born rich but we weren't poor, we received excellent educations, we're white—which is still an advantage in this world— and, okay, we're women, that's a hurdle to overcome in some situations but a real plus in others. What's your excuse?"
Furious, Harry's face flushed. "I don't need an excuse. I never made money the center of my life."
"The hell you didn't. All you talk about is not having it. That's like an alcoholic in Alcoholics Anonymous. No, they aren't drinking anymore, but alcohol, its absence, is central to their life. Wake up and smell the coffee."
"Damn you!" Harry's lips compressed, she sputtered, then controlled herself. "At least make me a cup of coffee if you're going to be a pure-D bitch."
"Gladly." Susan poured water into the coffeemaker. She ground whole beans kept in the freezer. As the brew percolated, she leaned against the counter, arms crossed over her chest. "Who else is going to tell you the truth?"
"No one. Even Miranda will sugarcoat it," Harry admitted. "I hate it when you're right. I just hate it."
"I love you. You're my sister, the sister I never had. I want you to be happy and you can only be happy if you're productive. That's your nature. Other people need love. I'm not saying you don't need love, but you need to be doing something, you need a task, a goal."
"That's true." Harry opened the fridge. "Least Ned has half-and-half. If I'm going to drink coffee I need real cream or half-and-half."
"Almost ready."
The reassuring aroma of coffee filled the kitchen. Susan poured them each a large mug. They perched on stools at the counter between the living room and the small kitchen.
"I've been an ass."
"No, you haven't. You've been avoiding the big issues, and you know why I can recognize it? I have, too."
"Susan, you've raised two children, worked nonstop for every good cause in the county and the state. You're perfect. Almost." Harry wryly smiled.
"Don't you feel sometimes like you're looking in a pair of binoculars? Pretend the binoculars see into the future. I look and it's blank."
A long sigh escaped Harry. "Yeah."
"But I have a good life. I know I have a good life, but I feel..." Susan couldn't find the words; she turned her hands palms upward.
"I know. That's why I like solving problems. I've done something. I guess I've held the blankness off."
"Do you regret not having children?"
"When I see you with your children, I do. When I see other people with those little consumer parasites, no." Harry laughed.
"What do we do now?"
"I don't know. I guess we grow old disgracefully."
"I don't want to grow old. I don't even want to turn forty." Susan tried to sound funny, but she meant it down to her bones.
"You know, Susan, it's funny, but I don't give a rat's ass. It's not the age thing, it's exactly what you said: I don't have a purpose. And I didn't take money seriously, which I truly believe is a woman's fault. We aren't raised to be responsible that way. We're raised to take care of other people, not the pocketbook."
"Lot of truth to that."
They drank their coffee, sat quietly, and then Harry said, "Since we found Great-Uncle Thomas, I've been reading about the Carmelite order on which the Afton monastery is modeled. Back in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, people, including the Carmelites themselves, believed in a mythology about the order. They believed that the sons of the prophets, the Old Testament prophets, belonged to the Essenes one thousand years before Christ. They lived on Mt. Carmel. One thousand years later, some of these holy men were present at St. Peter's first sermon on Pentecost. He converted them to Christianity and they built a chapel on Mt. Carmel in honor of the Blessed Virgin Mary.
"According to the myth, the Virgin Mary and the Apostles enrolled in the order.
"Clearly this is all made up, but that didn't prevent people from believing it. Over the centuries the order would relax, then suffer a cleaning paroxysm. Discipline would be restored. But throughout, many believed the story about Mary. My point is twofold." She smiled. "Do I sound like a lawyer?"
"More like a professor."
"Ah, well, anyway, here's where I'm going: this order has a long and rich history, and the Blessed Virgin Mary is at the center of it. My other thought is, what do we believe now that is as patently false as the stories about the Essenes, the sons of the prophets, Mary, and the Apostles? That's where we're coming a cropper, see? We can't see what's real. We literally can't see what's in front of our eyes."
"As in your life and my life?"
"Right."
"As in my great-uncle Thomas and Nordy Elliott meeting their Maker?"
"Right. It's in front of our eyes, but our belief system is so strong, we are so invested in it, that we can't see."
"I see," Susan replied, then had to laugh. "I mean, I get your point but I don't see. Not yet."
"Another thing. I didn't tell you. I didn't tell anyone if that will make you feel better. You've been worried. Crazy things are happening all around us."
"And?"
"Fair has given me until Christmas Eve to answer with a yes or no concerning his often-repeated marriage proposal." She stared down at the coffee cup.
Susan straightened in the chair. "That is news!"
32
A cavern of snow faced Harry, Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker at the soapstone quarry in the northeastern corner of Nelson County. The quarry was so deep that snow in the bottom didn't completely melt until the end of April. In the mid-eighteenth century the quarry brought prosperity to the small community of Schuyler. Like everything else in Virginia, the profits disappeared after 1865. Two generations after the war, the quarry boomed. Its fortunes shot upward and plunged down many times over the twentieth century. Despite the varying demand for soapstone and other types of stone, the quality of the product remained what it had always been: high.
"Imagine digging stone with pickaxes," Iggy Monroe said as he walked alongside Harry, the animals, and Bo Newell, who had introduced her to Iggy "Before white men, the Indians didn't even have iron picks and shovels. Harder work for them." His beat-up work boots sank into the snow as he led Harry to the main road down into the open mines. "This stone is so special because it makes the best wood-burning stoves in the world. Perfect material."
"It conducts heat," Bo added. "Evenly."
"This grade of soapstone conducts it in an even manner without cracking," Iggy added. "You don't get the exterior heat that an iron stove throws off. An iron stove can turn red-hot on you. Not going to happen with this."
"You can carve it?" Harry inquired.
"Yeah, better in slabs, though."
"But you can carve it into statues and stuff, you can cut into it to make signs?"
"Kind of a waste. If you want to make signs, use slate."
"Isn't soapstone a little oily?" Bo inquired.
"Yes."
"Could it leak liquid?"
"No, not if the stove is properly built."
"I'm not being very clear. When I mean, Mr. Monroe, is, if there were a vein of iron ore inside the stone, might the stone ooze iron ore—you know, a rusty liquid coming out of a crack?"
He shook his head. "No. There's no iron ore in this. We'd have hit a seam by now, and you can see"—he swept his hand toward the cavern—"there haven't been any iron seams for over two hundred and fifty years."
"Would it be possible to drill up through the stone and run liquid through it?"
"Sure, but you can do that with most any stone, even marble, which is dense and tight. The soapstone isn't a good candidate for that."
After chatting a few more minutes with Mr. Monroe and saying good-bye to Bo, Harry and the animals returned to her truck. As she drove the winding asphalt road back toward Route 29, she turned on the old radio, frowned at the static, then clicked it off.