Part 20 (1/2)

We counted three smaller buildings scattered about the campus that were no longer there. Vesta remembered the larger one as the old dining hall that was torn down after being badly damaged in a tornado.

”It cut a path through the edge of town, then veered and hit that part of the campus,” she told us. ”Fortunately no one was hurt, but it did a lot of damage. The academy closed its doors as a school a few years after that.”

”Did you go there?” I asked. Vesta shook her head. ”No, Mama didn't want to send me to Minerva. I went to the public schools here, then went off to college, but I remember that storm. I must've been about eight at the time. It destroyed a wooden cla.s.sroom building, too-ugly, two-story thing that was built to replace the one that burned, but it happened on a Sunday morning, thank goodness, when everybody was in church.”

”I can see why Hattie Carnes called this quilt the Burning Building,” Mildred said. ”It seems to be the dominant theme.”

I had to admit it kind of gave me the creeps. Red and orange flames, so vivid they looked as if they would singe you if you touched them, curled raggedly from the upstairs windows, dark puffs of smoke billowed from the roof.

”It is a strange theme,” I said. ”With the variety of quilt patterns to choose from, why on earth would they want to devote theirtime to making this?”

”It tells a story,” Vesta reminded me. ”A tragic story, true, but it involved a place and an event that had a great impact on their lives. Fitzhugh Holley, the young professor, died in that fire. They said he went back inside to save one of the girls.”

”So I guess he was a hero of sorts.” Mildred touched the worn applique', then abruptly drew back her hand.

”They named the main building after him,” Vesta told her.

”And I understand there was a huge demand for his children's books, although he didn't live to see them in print. ”Yes, I'd say he was a hero.”

”What did your mother say about him?” I asked. My grandmother shrugged. ”She didn't talk about him. It was too close to her, I guess.”

”Who was the girl he saved from the fire?” I asked her. Vesta smoothed a wrinkled corner, looking at it all the while. ”Good heavens, I have no idea! And after all this time, I don't suppose anyone else would, either.”

”Maybe Mamie Estes would,” I said. ”I'll call her.” But Mildred put a delaying hand on my arm. ”Never mind, I know who it was. It was Irene Bradshaw's mother. Irene told me once.”

”Aunt Pauline?” Vesta leaned on the foot of the heavy Victorian bed. ”She never mentioned it to me.”

”Maybe she didn't like to talk about it,” Mildred said, ”but Irene seemed quite proud of it. Said her mother had gone to take the professor his tea-seemed he always enjoyed a cup in the late afternoons-and she found the office filled with smoke and Professor Holley asleep in his chair. She managed to wake him, help him to the stairs...the office could only be reached by an inside stairway, I understand, but by that time Pauline became overcome herself. Fitzhugh Holley was said to have carried her down the stairs and outside.”

”So why did he go back?” Vesta wanted to know.

”Irene seemed to think he believed there was another student still inside,” Mildred said.

”But there wasn't.” I looked at the dreadful building and could almost smell the scorch of burning wood. ”What a waste!”

Vesta lifted the quilt and held it to the light. ”Did you notice the angel a little to the right above the building? She's almost hidden by a cloud, but she seems to be smiling on the whole scene.”

”She? He He, you mean. That must represent the professor.” I examined the tiny angel. It did seem to have definite feminine characteristics.

I looked closer at the quilt. Beneath a grove of patchwork trees a distance from the flaming building, five figures stood watching. They were primitive figures, such as the kind a child might design, but they were most decidedly female, and each wore a different color sc.r.a.p of fabric for a dress.

Even the bright morning sun couldn't warm the cold that came over me. Somehow I knew the crude doll-like characters represented the five woman who made the quilt, and each wore a tiny piece of material from her own dress.

”What a morbid lot they were! They've even included a teapot in here.” I showed the others a square in the corner of the quilt.

”And what about the little tree with yellow flowers?” Vesta pointed out. ”I've never seen one like it. Do you suppose it has any significance?”

”It looks something like a golden chain tree,” Mildred said.

”A neighbor had one when we were growing up; we used to call it a bean tree because it has long cl.u.s.ters of beanlike seedpods. The flowers look something like yellow wisteria.”

”Like these,” I said, patting a suns.h.i.+ny square. ”Aren't they beautiful?”

”Beautiful but deadly,” Mildred said. ”The seeds are extremely poisonous. Mama wouldn't let us play close to that tree.” She sank into the little maple rocking chair by the window and closed her eyes. ”I'm getting a bad feeling about this.”

Mildred looked like a life-size apple doll sitting there in her crisp blue checked housedress with the lace-trimmed collar and stockings the color of strong tea rolled (I knew) just above the knees and held in place with worn elastic. I went over and knelt beside her. I had a bad feeling, too, and the more we delved into the story behind the quilt, the darker things seemed. Suspicions whirled in my mind like worrisome gnats clouding my vision. These innocent-seeming young women-my own great-grandmother among them-had done something horrible, and I didn't want to focus on it.

”This is upsetting you,” I said, taking her hand. ”We can put the quilt away for a while.”

Did we really want to uncover the reason for this ghastly quilt? Now I knew how Peggy O'Connor, Mamie Estes, and all the others had felt. I wanted to send it as far away as possible and never see it again.

But then we might never know.

Mildred looked at my grandmother, who nodded to her with a barely noticeable squint that I knew meant she was worried. ”Minda's right. This can wait,” Vesta said.

”No, it can't.” Mildred took my arm and let me help her to her feet. ”Can't you see what happened here?”

I glanced at my grandmother and could tell by her expression that even if she did see, she'd rather not discuss it.

Mildred stood looking down at the quilt. ”I think I know who my father was,” she said. ”I've wondered all along, but I'm almost certain of it now. My father was Fitzhugh Holley, and those girls set that fire on purpose. They meant for him to die.”

”Oh-h, Mildred...” The words slid from Vesta's mouth with such a final sound it seemed she'd never speak again.

She did, of course. ”What makes you think they would do a thing like that?” she asked. ”That doesn't make any sense at all.” Her words weren't too convincing, I thought, since she backed away from the quilt as she spoke.

”They did it for revenge and probably for self-preservation. Look.” Mildred placed a finger on the angel. ”This isn't the n.o.ble professor looking down, it's supposed to be my mother, Annie Rose.”

My grandmother shook her head. ”But how-?”

”They thought she drowned in the river, you see. They knew about the pregnancy and who was responsible for it. They thought she took her own life.”

”How can you be sure?” I asked. ”Mamie's the only one left, and she stops short of admitting it.”

”And you said yourself he saved Pauline Watts,” Vesta said. ”Carried her out of that burning building. Didn't Irene tell you that?”

”Irene told me,” Mildred said, ”and I'm sure her mother told her told her that was what happened. That was their story.” that was what happened. That was their story.”

”But that's a hideous thing to do-even if he was responsible for-what you said!” Vesta laced her fingers together as if she meant to pray this away.

”There's more.” Mildred ran her hand over the quilt, traced the telltale designs with her fingers. ”There was a letter.”

”What kind of letter? Who wrote it?” I moved to her side to see what she was doing. Was the letter inside the quilt?

”The letter was from Flora Dennis. She and Lucy corresponded, you know, and just before Lucy died, a letter came from Flora.” Mildred turned to Vesta. ”Your mother didn't feel up to reading it, so she asked me to read it to her.

”There were things in that letter that would lead one to believe Annie Rose wasn't the professor's only victim, and that Flora herself might have been one, as well.”

”What things?” Vesta asked. ”What happened to the letter?”