Twisted Roots (DeBeers 3)

Chubs shot forward. Uncle Linden trailing behind him. I followed slowly,

"Now, now. Miss Bess, now. now," Chubs coaxed as he approached her.

She didn't stop until he reached out and took her arm. For a few moments she tottered, her legs still moving forward and then her body twisting. Suddenly she collapsed, folding up like a puppet whose strings were cut. Chubs didn't let her hit the ground. He caught her and in one easy, sweeping motion lifted her into his arms and started toward the house, carrying her as if she were only a child.

Uncle Linden stopped and watched as Chubs walked by I came up beside him.

"She was doing so well," he said. "She was doing so well. She was happy. Wasn't she happy, Hannah?"

"Yes. Uncle Linden, but you knew it was only temporary."

"Poor thing," he said. He started after them and then stopped and turned to me, a look of confusion on his face. "What are we doing?" he asked,

remembering what I had told him about Heyden.

"I don't know. Uncle Linden."

He shook his head. "I don't either,' he said and shaking his head, continued toward the house.

I looked back at his easel and thought I might as well gather all his things together and put them in the motor home. One way or another, we weren't going to stay here much longer. I thought.

I closed up his paint case, putting the brushes back carefully, and then I went to take the canvas off the easel. The cloth covering it fell away, and I stood there gaping in shock. There were no definitive shapes, nothing that resembled Bess or me or even a young girl taken from a photograph. Everything was in the abstract, if it could even be called that. It was just a mix of lines, circles and colors. It could best be described as an artist's mad rambling perhaps, a nightmare of hues and shades, shadows and light. Did he actually look at this and see something? Did he believe anyone else could? Or was this all some sort of artistic note taking that he would later convert into a picture?

I gazed back at the house. They had all gone inside. including Uncle Linden. I couldn't imagine what Mrs. Stanton would think if she saw this I quickly threw the cloth over the canvas and put it under my arm. I folded his easel and then grasped the handle of his paint case. Struggling, but somehow managing. I carried it all to the motor home and got it all inside.

Afterward, when I entered the house. I found Uncle Linden pacing in the foyer.

"What's going on?" I asked.

They took her upstairs. She was still

unconscious. What should we do?"

"What can we do. Uncle Linden?" I wanted to say we had our own problems now. but I didn't want to sound like Heyden. She needs medical care."

"Yes," he said. "Perhaps."

Chubs appeared at the top of the stairway and started down. "How is she?" I asked.

"She's breathin' all right. She's just... like she is, like she's been ever since. Often, she'll fall into these deep sleeps. Maybe she feels better that way," he said, shaking his head.

"Can we see her?" Uncle Linden asked quickly.

"I don't know. I don't know what good it'll do. Mrs. Liliann is with her. You can go up and knock on the door. I suppose," he added. He rubbed his lower back, "Got word rain's comin'," he said. "It always does when I have an ache right here. More reliable than the weatherman."

We watched him leave the house, and then Uncle Linden turned to me and said. "We should at least see haw she is before we decide to do anything."

'Okay," I said and followed him up the stairway.

We could hear Mrs. Stanton humming what sounded like a lullaby in Bess's bedroom. Uncle Linden paused at the open door and knocked an the jamb. We both looked in and saw Mrs. Stanton sitting on the bed and holding Bess's hand. Bess was under the blanket, her hair spread over the pillow, her face looking as pale as someone's who never set foot outside. "How's she doing?" Uncle Linden asked.

"She's fine." Mrs. Stanton said, forcing a smile. "Just fine." Bess turned slowly and looked at us.

"Who's that. Grandma?" She squinted at us. "They come about the peaches?"

"Yes." she said. "They've come about the peaches. I'll just take care of them, and then I'll be right back. You want some mint iced tea?"

"That would be nice. Thank you, Grandma."