Unraveling Ada, a sample chapter.

Saturday, October 4, evening.One week later, I was wending my way toward my first authentic quilting bee under a darkish sky.  Totally energized. A little anxious. Totally smiling all the way. Matt had been surprised at first, maybe even concerned, but as we’d sat together in our office reading the online information on The Quilted Secrets Bee: A Small Hive of Old Fashioned Hand Quilters webpage, he’d slowly warmed to the idea. On some level Matt knew I needed this camaraderie with other women, and for me socializing had always been easier when combined with an activity--something to help fill the void when conversations lagged. The web site also gave me two names to work with. I already had Hannah Lilly, and her chocolaty voice. Apparently Hannah was their public contact person. The other name was Victoria Stowall and she was the leader of the group—perhaps its originator. But aside from the background photograph of a beautiful block quilt, there were no photographs. I looked up at the sky ahead of me at the low flying gray and charcoal clouds, nimbostratus, that covered our bit of California like a lumpy army blanket--damp and stinky. The weather was so unusual for this time of year. Rain was a rarity anytime in Southern California—the average rainfall being somewhere around twelve inches--but it was especially rare in the fall. Tonight the clouds were supposed to evolve into a drenching storm, an event that could turn the recent fear of fires into fear of mudslides. My winding hour-long drive would take me through Julian to I-13, and then on south into Cleveland County. Dusk was just settling in under the thick blanket of clouds as I found my next turn. I passed the ashes of several burned out neighborhoods, small groups of what were once homes but now were reduced to lone chimneys sticking up here and there like giant grave markers. They reminded me of the burned tree spires at Applepine. Standing among the ashes were a couple of young men surveying the original property lines in the failing light, already preparing for the rebuilding. California didn’t stand still. Strangely, the surveyors were wearing plaid shirts. But then this strange cloud cover had lowered the temperatures considerably for this time of year, and up on this mile high plateau it was always cooler. George Washington and apple pies popped into my head. Unlike Washington’s green woods however, these Southern California mountain forests were sparse and dry, mostly white fir, Jeffrey, Douglas, a few piñón pines. But, what could be more Colonial than a quilting bee, no matter what the landscape? On some level, I felt like a frontier woman on her way to a local social. And I was only mildly anxious about the idea of staying up past my normal bedtime. Surely they would serve some apple creations at the bee tonight. Julian was famous for them.I bore right onto I-13 and quickly found the turnoff to Iguana. I spotted the next sign, a local product far less welcoming than the one on the freeway. This one needed a coat of paint, and was a warning not a welcome.
IGUANA
Population small and meant to stay that way.
Lovely. But not an unusual sentiment for over-crowded Southern California.I passed through a hamlet of meager stores and starving restaurants, a gas station so old I wondered if it was up to code with today’s green laws. And finally a small wooden church, which made me pray I would beat the rain to the front door of this event. It was going to be a close race. I kept searching for the illusive dirt road I was instructed to find a little past the old town—something about a low rock wall entrance with the name in Mexican tiles on it: Stowall. Finally, there it was. I gratefully pulled to a stop just inside the long driveway. I needed a moment to compose my slightly panicky brain. I gazed at the house before me, now feeling completely time-warped back to the thirties and teleported to the Appalachians—sans the green woods as I’ve already said. Ahead of me lay a sprawling one-story wood frame structure, fully lit from one end to the other (obviously no fear of electric bills here) with spotlighting on a few crippled looking shrubs that hugged the oddly shaped perimeter. A strange landscaping choice that was immediately compounded by a large pile of boulders on the right, also lighted and planted in a bed of dried weeds and grasses. As I rolled by, the disintegrating remains of a prairie wagon and some sort of rusted farming tool came into view, as if they’d been hiding their shame behind the boulders. The junkyard-slash-geological grouping was either a miserable attempt at outdoor statuary or perhaps someone’s idea of what to do with the heavy trash. Decorate the yard.I use the term yard very loosely here. There was no real yard, no lawn, no flowers. Just a burned out field left over not from the recent fires but from the long summer with no water. On the left off in the distance was a black rectangular shape I could barely perceive in the dusk. Maybe an outbuilding of some sort. A flash of light and clap of thunder warned me to speed it up or prepare to muck-swim my way to the front door.The crooked home seemed to have been built over a period of years, some rooms with wood facing, some with stucco, huge and disjointed. I concluded the Stowalls must be a large family, the rooms having been added as the family added children. Grapes of Wrath, came to mind. To Kill a Mockingbird.  A librarian’s habit, to relate in book titles. But this scene was more than strange. I would have turned tail and run except there were already several cars parked in a helter-skelter gathering in front of the house—no doubt the other quilters. The cars gave me courage. Most of them were new, much newer than my own. Beyond the cars the dirt road faded away, taking my fears with it around the back of the odd house. I opened my door and placed a tentative foot—wearing a stylish burnt orange Moc--down on the half gravel, half dirt road. I was dressed in yellows and oranges tonight, something cheerful I hoped would help keep me awake. A rousing breeze played with my hair. The storm was arriving.  I hurried. Someone within was watching me. I could feel their eyes although I saw no one at the dirty windows as I scurried toward the door. Again the rectangular structure hiding in the dark to the south caught my attention. I raised my hand to knock feeling slightly winded. Altitude, I lied to my brain. We’re up a mile. Yeah, sure, brain answered. The door swung open as I was still gazing south.“They’re solar panels. From a time when there was no electricity up in these parts. They’re still in use, thus the garish display of electric wealth.” Right. Solar panels. We need to get some of those….I looked back at the smiling middle-aged woman, about my height. Hannah. I’d know that voice anywhere. She was unpretentious, with long brown hair hanging straight around her face. Soft blue, even transparent, eyes. High color in her cheeks. She wore no makeup and her skin was smooth and clear. Plain beauty. I returned her smile. Hers was as natural as wild birdsong.“Welcome Rachel. I hope you found us easily enough.”“Yes, just fine, although the storm had me worried.” I was excusing my silly hesitations on the way in. Hers must have been the eyes that I’d felt on me as I’d approached. I stepped inside.“Yes it is forecast to be a wild night, but should clear by morning,” Hannah Lilly tossed over her shoulder, her words like a string of soft sounds leading me deeper into the house.Hannah was wearing a nondescript plum-colored polo shirt and faded baggy cotton pants I could have sworn were the same brand as my own. Dressed for comfort. She padded ahead in thick white cotton socks. I noticed she was limping. “The limp is due to a sprained ankle. I was toddler chasing,” Hannah said, as if reading my mind. Occupational hazard, I thought. Been there done that.To the right of the undefined entrance was a huge high-ceilinged room with four large couches, and several chairs and tables scattered around like pick-up-sticks. There was at least enough seating for twenty. I gaped. At the back of this open space was the dining area forming an L-shape around what I assumed were the walls of the kitchen. The dining room table was enormous, too. Yep. The Stowalls had many children. But something was missing in this picture. Where were those children now? Why weren’t they helping mom and dad maintain their abode? There were legitimate answers, of course, like, busy with their own lives, the parents were stubbornly independent, all living at distant locations. But the condition of things here spoke of need and not-so-benign neglect. And lack of use.As I looked about the extraordinarily wide living room I thought it must have been expanded at least once even before the addition was made.  Hannah stepped halfway into the kitchen to mutter a few words to whoever was there, while I continued my examination. The couches were covered with a variety of faded floral fabrics. The curtains over the front and back windows were lightweight cotton, also covered with large flowers. Most of it looked homemade and old. Lamps listed with shades akimbo perched on odd end tables, all covered with dust, like unrelated groupings of faded beauties in a ballroom. The whole house had an air of having served its purpose, and now was searching for an appropriate ending. Hannah returned and rescued me from a growing melancholy. “Most everyone is in the back where we’ll quilt. That’s my mom, Ruth, puttering in the kitchen. Victoria’s too old to take care of the refreshments, so we all chip in when it’s her turn to host.” “I better lead the way as there are nine bedrooms built off the halls every which way. You probably noticed that as you drove up. You might get lost, or stumble on one of the many dark secrets hidden in them.” I stared at her.“That was a joke. This way,” she said and turned, never cracking a smile. Dry. Very dry humor. And paranoid. Very paranoid, I chided myself. I silently followed her lead down a hall running south off the living room. We passed two opposing closed doors. We turned left down another hall. This one ended at the front of the house with a French door that opened to the outside but had clearly been overgrown by some of those dead bushes the Stowalls used for landscaping. A bit of my own humor. Before reaching the dead-end door however, we made a quick right down onto a longer hall with more closed doors. Eventually there would be another right turn and another left turn, each with its own closed doors. I was suddenly certain I would never find my way back.“Breadcrumbs,” I muttered.“No. Too many wild birds, “ Hannah quipped.Also very smart.With all the land, why didn’t they just build the house in a straight line? The only lighting for these bending halls was coming from little wall lamps fashioned like imitation candles with miniature parchment shades, and a glow emanating from the floor. Light was seeping from under the closed doors. I’d noticed that when I drove up, come to think of it. All the windows were lit. Were they all occupied?“Victoria lives alone now and I think she’s afraid of the dark, so all of the rooms are lit all of the time. The doors are usually open, but my mom and I closed them when we got here. I think maybe Jake thought the bending halls would help keep down the noise factor when their children lived with them.” Hannah said.Victoria was the only one living in this huge structure. No wonder it was dusty. Jake was Victoria’s husband, now gone. “The rooms were for the children, of course, but now there’s stuff stored in them.”“Stuff?”I caught a grin on her face as she rounded what seemed like the fifteenth corner.“I almost forgot you’re an investigator. Someone, I think Jake, was a collector of old newspapers and other stuff. A packrat.”I understood packrat. I lived with one. So was Jake Victoria’s ex-husband, or was he deceased? I was making mental notes of things I needed to learn. It was a habit.We came to a hall with an open door, one that light was fully flowing from, and I prayed we had arrived. I’d greatly underestimated the size of this one story maze-like structure. I would have worried about finding my way back, except we hadn’t passed any forks in the road. It was a straight shot, a crooked straight shot.“Okay, we’re here,” Hannah announced, then ushered me in. “Everyone this is Rachel Lyons. I’ll let you guys take it from here, mom needs help in the kitchen with the tea.” She turned to me and added, “Tea is our mainstay for these events, keeps us going all night long.” More Hannah humor, which made me wonder which of the closed doors led to a bathroom. Then she abandoned me, disappearing back down the broken hallway. I stepped into the quilting room and raised a feeble hand in greeting to the others, my heart doing a steady tom-tom in my chest.It was the altitude.Three young women sat on a low-slung couch just inside the door to my left. The couch—another floral job--was so broken down the three were almost sitting on the floor. The closest one was a redhead, the middle one was a very young-looking blond, and the farthest was a tall, olive-skinned, black-haired woman I guessed was in her twenties like the redhead. The redhead had an impish look, probably because of her short stature.Across from the three were two empty chairs. I waited in vain for some response to my wave from the three females. Uncomfortable, I looked away to take in the room. With all the lights burning in the rest of the house, this room was strangely under-lit. Only the two lamps on either side of the low couch offered light to the surrounding darkness.I stood awkwardly wondering if I should just take a seat, feeling as if I’d just entered a doctor’s waiting room. No one ever talked to anyone else in a doctor’s waiting room. Privacy was expected there, even secrecy. After all, you were about to enter the shaman’s domain and be weight and measured and strip-searched for diseases. But this was a social gathering so why wasn’t anyone being sociable? Maybe they were deaf. Certainly they were mute.  But they could see, and they were staring at me expectantly. I waved less feebly this time. Feeling genuinely silly, I decided to challenge them. Force them to respond with my affability.The blond smiled sheepishly and waved back. Good! Progress. I spoke. “Hi.” It came out sounding funny, squeaky. My throat had tightened. This behavior was making me tense.Two of the women looked at each other, passing the buck. But the redhead scowled and shook her head, then nodded toward the darkness beyond the couch. I peered. Squinted. But there was nothing to see. They were having fun with me so I persevered. “Any of you can answer.” More silence.“Okay, let me help you. How about we start with the first mystery woman on the couch?” The blond giggled then shrank down in her seat, making me realize she was very young. Where were those old quilters when you needed them? They would surely have developed social graces. I wasn’t in a doctor’s office; I was a substitute teacher taking on a sixth grade class.And then the third young woman, the one with black hair, put her index finger to her lips to shush me, and then pointed to the darkness beyond her. But it was too late.A third low lamp clicked on in the darkness beyond the couch and a navy blue dress hanging over fat legs, wearing knee high stockings rolled down to the ankles and sensible black leather walking shoes, came into view. Also visible now was one gnarled hand gripping a fluffy yellow pillow in the navy blue lap. Visions of Stephen King’s Gramma popped into my head. The pillow growled. Two more fluffy pillows sped into the room around my ankles and took up stations on either side of the sensible shoes where they proceeded to yip violently. The headless shadow-form said, “Stop it! Hush, children. The three of you are being rude.” My eyes slid involuntarily toward the three on the couch, but then the dogs quieted.“I’m sorry, I was resting my eyes for the bee, which is why the lights are low. You must be Rachel.” It was a woman’s voice but coarse and slurring, perhaps belonging to the matriarch I’d found mentioned online—Victoria Stowall. Now that I knew an elderly woman had been napping just inches away, I realized the silent trio weren’t being rude, they were being considerate. Unfortunately, that meant I was being rude.“Yes, I’m Rachel. I didn’t realize you were over there.” I tentatively answered. Feeling more tentative by the moment. My eyes finally found the whole body from which the ancient voice emitted and she was indeed old. Way into her eighties was my guess. The yellow pillow-dog in her lap was wriggling hysterically. The fluffs at her feet—one black and one white--were building up steam for another outburst too. Finally the black one charged forward baring its tiny teeth and screech-barked loudly at me. I took a step back. I’m not afraid of dogs. I have a huge one of my own at home, I reminded myself. The really dangerous kind, a shepherd. But small dogs were…quicker. Like spiders.“Maybe we should put the dogs in a spare bedroom, Victoria.” It was the tallest of the seated females, the one with black hair, confirming my assumption that the once headless voice was Victoria Stowall’s. Victoria didn’t respond. She may have dozed off again. Her head had slipped back into the shadows.Instead, the young woman made a sharp shushing sound at the dogs and snapped her fingers. The scary fluff retreated to sit by the ancient woman’s legs again, nervously eyeing the black-haired woman and licking his chops in between pants. But there were no further introductions and no one stood to remove the attack dogs. I wondered if I should go assist the two women in the kitchen, but there was that confusing trip down the dark hall.Behind the matriarch I could make out a large stone fireplace in the dimness. Suddenly the old woman’s countenance appeared again.“I’m Victoria Stowall,” she said belatedly. Still half in REM-land I told myself. She leaned forward revealing her face fully for the first time in meager lamplight. “Welcome to our sewing bee.” She receded back into the darkness, returning to her nap.I did not feel welcomed. I felt somewhat dissed and very confused.A second elderly woman entered behind me and rushed toward a table off in the darkness at the back of the room. She was carrying an electric tea pot in two hands so I guessed she must be Hannah’s mom, Ruth. She spoke as she went.“Don’t take it personal. There’s been a death and we’re all feeling out of sorts. Take a seat.” She bent to plug the pot in behind the table.“Two deaths,” someone on the couch muttered. “What two deaths?” slipped out before I could catch it. I’d only been told about the one I was replacing—during my phone conversation with Hannah a week ago.The wrinkled flesh-puddle wedged into the overstuffed chair in front of the fireplace leaned forward a bit and changed the subject. “Did anyone pick up the pies?” “Yeah, I got them on the way here,” the second old woman answered, then hustled from the room as quickly as she’d arrived. I was taking it ‘personal’. Anyone would. What was going on here? I stood waiting as an awkward silence stretched into minutes. I thought Victoria Stowall had definitely resumed her nap. Maybe I should just sit in one of the empty chairs. Further introductions were not coming.But the anxious miniature poodle-combos, in their not so clean doggy sweaters, were not sleeping. No wonder they were overwrought, the sweaters were probably itchy. Finally the tension was too much for dog number three, the black one on the floor who’d already done a practice run on me. It charged me again, this time almost making it to my feet. I backed up one more step.“For Pete’s sake, one of you grab that fur ball before he gets it into his head he’s a pit bull.” The words came from the returning older woman I was thinking was Hannah’s mother, who was about half the weight of Victoria. Probably from all the exercise. She scurried in behind me again this time delivering a tray of cookies to the table half hidden against the wall at the back of the room and quickly left. “Too late! She already thinks she’s a pit bull,” the redhead called after the departing cookie bearer. I was about to ask for the women’s names since we’d decided not to keep silent for Victoria, when the black dog launched its third and final attack. Its barks were threatened my hearing. My back would soon be at the wall. So I recklessly leaned down and picked up the snarling fur ball and cradled it gently in my arms, cooing and smiling. It stopped barking and licked my hand, and then my face. Okay, now we were friends. The white miniature raced over to have some of that. Grateful for something to do beside feel uncomfortable and disrespected, I leaned down and patted it…her…on the head. The black one escaped my arms and off they ran to sit guard at Gramma’s feet once more. Note of caution to self: stop thinking of her as Gramma now! You might actually call her that.