Deep South Read Free Page B

on the ground.
    They did not drape one's corners and drop down one's collar.
    Soon, in this carport, there would be serious harassing of wildlife.
    Having looked carefully before thrusting her hand into the dark, she snatched the keys off the tire and fled back to the sunshine.
    She was of two minds about the house. Compared with her tower in Mesa Verde, it was completely lacking in charm. Compared with much of the Park Service housing she'd inhabited, it was palatial. The floors were hardwood, the walls white. There was a bath and a half that appeared clean and serviceable, and three small bedrooms, only two of which she was allowed to use. Exhibiting true governmental logic, the NPS was willing to rent her the house at the slightly lower monthly rate of a two-bedroom if she promised she wouldn't use bedroom number three. "Not even for storage?" she'd asked. Not even for storage.
    Those not employed by the parks might well ask: "Who would know?" Those with the Park Service for any length of time knew everybody knew everything all the time. Information traveled by gossip, innuendo and osmosis. Probably employees in the Port Gibson Districtif not everybody from Natchez to Nasbvlllc-already knew more about her than a shrink or a priest would discover in a lifetime of revelations.
    The kitchen was small, with white counters and a linoleum floor.
    Over the sink was a view of her backyard, a weedy mowed area divided by a broken clothesline and hemmed in on two sides by an apparently impenetrable wall of trees. Not the tidy spaced trees of the water-poor Four Corners area, forests where one could stroll and contemplate the serenity of nature, but a tangled, creeping wall of life. Trees tied to vines laced with Spanish moss formed a Curtain of green that dropped to the ground. There shrubs took over. Her backyard looked not so much planted as carved from the forest and mightily defended by repeated mowing. Just such country had the original Trace been cut through with no tools but those a man could carry on his back.
    Had Anna been rested, she might have been more appreciative of the feat.
    As it was, she just wondered why they hadn't stayed home.
    On the counter by the refrigerator was a five-gallon plastic container of store-bought water with a Post-it note on it. She plucked the note off and held it to the light. Somewhere between forty-three and forty-five her eyesight bad changed. That, or small print had grown insidiously smaller. "The water here won't kill you but that's all the good I can say of it. Welcome to the Trace, Steve Stilwell, DR, Ridgeland." Stilwell. Anna remembered one of the many new names thrust upon her over the telephone during the past month. Stilwell was the district ranger in Ridgeland, the section of the Natchez Trace north of Jackson, about forty-five miles from Rocky Springs. He'd been doing double duty, his district and hers, till she came on board. Steve Stilwell, she was prepared to like. She had spent too many years in the desert not to feel kindly toward a man offering water.
    A flicker of movement caught her eye, and she wandered into the dining area, the short leg of the L-shaped living room. On the wall near the windows overlooking the backyard were two shockingly green lizards, each about four inches long. For a moment she watched them doing push-ups as they gauged the distance between themselves and this intruder.
    "If you eat spiders, I'll ask Piedmont to let you live," she told them.
    Saying the eat's name reminded her of her responsibilities.
    Having rescued the orange tiger cat from the Rambler, she establisbed him, a litter box, food and water in one of the back bedrooms, opened the door of his carrier and shut the door to the hall to let him acclimatize to one small piece of real estate at a time.
    Back in the living room, she realized she had no idea where she was headed. The U-Haul had her goods locked up and, at the moment, she hadn't the energy for moving heavy objects. Food would