I have included the first couple of chapters on my blog and hope that you might read it and maybe make some comments.
Quilted Past
“Quilt
(n): a bed cover made of two layers filled with down,
wool,
or cotton and stitched together in lines or patterns.”
Webster’s New World Dictionary
The evening rays of sun disappeared behind the mountain tops, casting long shimmering knife-like daggers across the rippling water. The water was dark, deep and very cold, even for this time of the year at Moosehead. A breeze blew in from the north, offering up fair warning as to what was soon to come.
A fish broke the surface, looking for that last bite of food before total darkness. There were no birds, no loons with their haunting cries, just the sound of leaves rustling in the trees. The silence was deafening.
The smell of freshly lit fires to fight off the evening chill from neighboring camps filled the air. Music from a radio played quietly in the background. The hits of the 70’s, I think. I took one last gaze across the lake. Dark now. Peaceful.
Only kerosene lamps were available, no electricity. This was deep in the Maine woods. I turned up the lantern, picked up a book, settled back in he musty overstuffed chair and prepared to amuse myself at least for a few minutes. It had been a very busy day and I was tired. I needed something to help unwind, but was not sure Steven King would do it.
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I woke with a start. I must have dozed off and fumbled to find my watch. What time was it? The wind howled through the trees and branches slapped against the roof and sides of the camp. The lamp had gone out.
“My God, it was dark, I mumbled. “I forgot how dark it can get here.” The hands on the watch pointed to 1:30 . A sudden pounding on the door brought me back to my senses. Tripping over furniture, I stumbled my way to the door to open it.
“ Ouch! That'll leave a bruise,” I shouted, knocking over a chair.
Opening a door during the night in the middle of the woods can be dangerous and risky at times. But this was Maine, not the city. There was nothing dangerous out here except for a bear or two, maybe. I reached for what I thought was the shotgun, just in case. The knocking had stopped. I opened the door and quickly looked around, peering into the dark woods.
Whatever or whoever must have changed their mind. Good thing, too. It had been awhile since I had taken a shot at something with a broom handle, much less a shotgun. The wind suddenly subsided Perhaps no one had been at the door after all and it had been just the wind slapping the screen door..
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The early morning sun reflected off the mirror on the wall, hitting me sharply between the eyes. Stretching and turning, I freed myself from the mass of blankets I had used to protect myself from the creatures of the night. Coffee and food would be good. I had not eaten since noon yesterday. After putting a pot of coffee on the old camp stove, I went to search the car for the groceries I had forgotten to bring inside. I was sure nothing had spoiled, though.
The air outside was unusually clear and fresh. Another beautiful day and today I was going to enjoy it. As I turned back to the house I noticed the figure of a person shrouded in what appeared to be a quilt, on the ground propped against a tree. My calling resulted in no response. I moved closer.
“Dead?” I shouted not realizing I had said out loud.
With no cell phone service I drove into town to notify the police. I told them where the camp was located and they headed out immediately, with lights flashing, and arrived there well ahead of me. They examined the body, identifying it was an elderly lady and went about looking for clues and other evidence that might give some indication of what had happened. I retold my story at least five or six times about hearing the storm and the wind and thinking that maybe someone was at the door, but opening it, saw no one.. This was probably the most exciting thing that had happened for the local police in years. They continued to look inside and out in search of a clue.
She carried no identification and was dressed in clothing that indicated she did not live locally, especially her shoes. No jewelry or purse. All she seemed to have in her possession was the quilt. Clutched in her right hand however, was a piece of note paper with the initials ‘JLM’ scribbled on it. Those just happened to be my initials.
We all surmised that she may have been looking for me, but I did not know who she was and it could have been just a coincidence. But it was a bit of a puzzle as to how she ended up in the woods, with no immediate sign of a car or other transportation.
The paramedics gently put the elderly woman’s body in a body bag, zipped it, placed her on a gurney and wheeled her into the back of the ambulance. With lights flashing, they began the short trip to the local morgue. One officer stayed behind and took one more quick look around the area, and confident he had not overlooked anything, packed up his equipment.
“If you find anything, please let us know,” he reminded me in his best police voice.
This time, with the siren screaming, he raced down the camp road scaring every bit of wildlife within a three mile radius.
“Great,” I thought. “Every person in the north woods now knows that something had happened at the camp. That search for peace and quiet might have to wait just a little bit longer.”
I slowly walked back up the steps of the porch thinking that if I had only answered the door a bit quicker the woman might still be alive. But then, maybe not.
The faded rainbow colors of the quilt still lying on the porch caught my eye. The police officer had not been as thorough as he thought. They had forgotten the quilt. Maybe they thought it was mine and I had used it to cover her body. That’s why they left it here. I picked it up, folded it and went inside. I placed it on the chair with the intent to drop it off at the police station the next time I went to town.
My goal was to escape the daily rat race for at least a few days. So far, events had not allowed that to happen. Perhaps now I could find a bit of peace and solitude. I needed something to settle my nerves. It was too early for a drink so with a book in one hand and a half eaten Hershey Bar in the other, I paced around the room for several minutes and then I settled back into the big overstuffed chair and began to lose myself in the plot of the novel.
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Hours blended into days and days into weeks. The mornings were now very cool. The leaves, now past their peak of color were quickly falling to the ground. The water in the lake was too cold in which to bathe. The old quilt, which I had forgotten to take into town, was now part of the bedding that was keeping me warm at night.
The weeks passed and the police were unable to identify the elderly lady. There were no missing person reports. The good news was they were not holding me responsible for her death, not that I had anything to do with it. The case was closed, at least for now. The body had been taken to the local hospital and now needed to be moved. The police decided to send it to Augusta.
They had remembered the notepaper in her hand and initials matching those of my name and up to this point had considered it coincidental as well. Purely coincidental!
Usually on the last night of my stay of the season I would make a list of those things I had accomplished while on hiatus, those things I did not accomplish, and toast it with a glass of very rare scotch. I spent time cleaning up and got ready to retire for that one last good night’s sleep. However, as I straightened out the pile of blankets on top of the bed I took an extra look. Shivers ran up and down my spine as I suddenly remembered that aside from my bedroom, the last official act performed by the quilt was that of keeping an elderly lady warm as she died.
“Oh my! This quilt had covered a dead body!”
I began to smooth out the wrinkled fabric in each of the squares. The quilt contained fragments of silks, satins, cottons, wools, a mass of colors, designs and prints. It was obvious, even with my untrained eye, that this was very old but still in remarkably good condition. Upon closer examination I noticed that within each square was a name, sewn with dark colored thread, just first names with two exceptions. Two of the squares had both a first and last name. Some of the stitching had worn away, but there was enough remaining to make out the names. Obviously someone’s family quilt having been passed down from generation to generation.
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I had to get an early start in the morning if I intended to get to home by nightfall. So as I had done the past several weeks, I brightened the kerosene lamp in order to read for just a bit and hoped to drop off to sleep quickly.
But sleep didn’t come easily this night. The names on the quilt had piqued my curiosity and as I dosed, I dreamt of who those people might be. Was I sleeping with someone’s family history? And if so, whose family?
The tossing and turning finally forced me to give up. I poured myself another drink and spread the quilt out on the floor. I walked around the rectangle as one might do in practicing for a dance. Each step presented a new picture of color and design that I had not noticed before. It was as if the quilt was being lifted off the floor to give it depth and richness.
“Look at me!” it said. “Okay. No more scotch.”
I woke to the sound of rain beating against the roof and windows. I had never made it back to bed but managed to find my way to the overstuffed chair. At least it wasn’t the floor. I finished what little packing I had, loaded the car, locked the door, said good bye for another year and headed home.
About a mile down the road I started to think about the quilt and the elderly woman. Both had caused me to lose a good night’s sleep. I turned the car around, headed back to the camp, unlocked the door, picked up the quilt and put it on the back seat. If nothing else, it would make a good dog bed or covering when moving furniture. *
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