The Thorny Path Read online

  She turned the book so that the bishop and his daughter could see the page with her. “I don’t see anyone named Rice. But that doesn’t mean he wasn’t listed. His name could have been on the half of the page that got scorched and crumbled away.”

  The bishop leaned close, scanning the names listed. He couldn’t find a Rice, either. He felt an unexpectedly strong surge of disappointment.

  “What was the bride’s maiden name?” asked their helper.

  “Um—Burke. Annie Josephine Burke.”

  Gingerly she moved to the back half of the volume. “There’s a reverse index, by bride’s name,” she explained. “Maybe we’ll be luckier, here, let’s see. Well, looky here! This might be her. It says ‘Annie J. Bur . . . , but the rest of the name and the page number are gone. That’s still a clue that the marriage probably took place in this county. Of course, the name might have been Burns or Burwell or something—there’s really no way to tell. Did she have any sisters? Let’s see if there are any other Burkes.”

  “One sister, I think. I heard of an Aunt Lily Burke, but my impression is that she never married.”

  “How about brothers?”

  “Two. Um—Everett and Jesse.”

  The clerk turned back to the grooms’ section again, to the “B” page, and found an entry for a Jesse Burke.

  “Well, I know it’s not much, but it’s some evidence that your grandmother’s family probably lived here during that time period.”

  The bishop copied the entry about Jesse into his notebook. “What about the records themselves? Did anything survive except the index?”

  “Not from about 1900 through 1917. We can look at the 1918 index and see if maybe they’re listed there, but I’ll be surprised. I’ll bet that Annie J. we found was your lady.”

  He sighed. “Likely so.”

  They examined the 1918 index, to no avail. There were no Burkes or Rices listed.

  “What about birth certificates for these people?” Tiffani asked. “Can’t we just look at those and get their parents’ names and stuff?”

  “Oh, honey, birth certificates in Georgia didn’t get going good until 1927 or ’28,” the clerk explained. “Good thought, though. Now, if ya’ll want to look at deeds, the old ones are down the hall in Room 105.”

  They thanked her and went to that office. The bishop found fairly complete indexes for the time period in question, but was puzzled to find no land records at all listed under the name of Rice. There were a number of Burke deeds, and he obtained copies of them, but he already knew a good bit about the Burke line, and he wasn’t sure that these deeds would add much to his knowledge, although he was glad to have them. It was the Rice family he was after on this trip. Time for Plan B.

  * * *

  He found a playground at a shady park for Jamie and Mallory to run off some energy while he and Trish pondered what to do next, and Tiffani stretched out with her book. For lunch, they came across a place on the highway that advertised “Real Smokepit BBQ” and that exuded mouthwatering smells. Trish ate sparingly, being well aware of what all the fat, spice, buttered biscuits, and coleslaw dressing could do to her presently delicate digestion. She tried to warn her husband that he, too, might suffer, but he waved away her concern.

  “I’m on vacation,” he said, lifting his oversized barbecued beef sandwich from its basket of fries. “Besides, a genealogist needs his nutrition. I’ve decided this is hard work!”

  They ate at a rustic picnic table in a vast, dim dining room only slightly cooled by high ceiling fans. He used the time to peruse the Burke deeds he had collected, fighting his way through the legalese to get to the facts on each document.

  “You know,” he said at last, “all these deeds show that the Burkes owned land in a little town called Winns Corner. If the Burkes lived there, chances are the Rices did, too. Let’s go have a look around, there.”

  “Cemeteries?” Tiffani asked darkly.

  “Wonderful idea!” her father agreed. “Thanks, Tiff.”

  “It’s Mom’s turn to do research,” she said. “I’m going to read my book.”

  Chapter Two

  * * *

  “Generations gone before”

  The area known as Winns Corner seemed to consist of little more than a corner—an intersection of two country roads that boasted a dilapidated gas station and what appeared to be a general store on the southwest quadrant. A battered pickup nosed up against the side of the building, but there seemed to be no customers at present. The bishop and his family got out of their air-conditioned car and stretched in the sleepy heat and silence that was broken only by the occasional buzz of an insect. Green farmlands stretched in all directions as far as they could see, with periodic clumps of trees that might or might not be sheltering houses and outbuildings.

  “Let’s all go in,” the bishop suggested. “Bound to be cooler inside.”

  They trooped in through the squeaky screened door, their presence announced by the jangling of a bell, and paused while their eyes adjusted to the dimness. A counter ran along about six feet of the left wall, and a radio softly played country-western music. Tables were piled with merchandise, offering everything from folded children’s clothing in front to tires and automotive parts in the rear. One table held school supplies, another, used paperback books. Several racks against the wall offered bread and canned goods—Spam, tuna, pork and beans, hash, and boiled peanuts—and two chest-style coolers stood adjacent to the counter, the first containing bags of ice, ice-cream bars, cans of beer and soft drinks, and wrapped meat—the second with milk, butter, and eggs. Bushel baskets of produce—potatoes, green beans, beets, and onions—sat on the floor, and, most appealing to the bishop, a couple of washtubs filled with ice water offered huge, striped watermelons or sweet corn.

  “This place is so cool,” whispered Jamie, as if the peace and quiet of the store demanded reverence. “They got everything. Look, Mal—they even got a couple of Barbies! And the same kind of transformers I used to have.”

  “Is this a store or a museum?” Tiffani wondered aloud, standing still with her arms folded around her middle. Her mother was looking through the infant clothing.

  “Hello-o,” called the bishop. “Anybody here?”

  No one replied.

  “I bet aliens came and captured the people,” Jamie advised. “And it happened five years ago, and there’s a spell on the place, so everything’s stayed just the same.”

  “Interesting theory,” his mother told him with a fond smile. “More likely, though, the proprietor stepped out for a minute, or went home for a bite of lunch.”

  “Would he leave the store open like this?” Tiffani wondered. “I mean, even here in the back of beyond? Anybody could come in and steal anything they wanted.”

  “Cool,” Jamie was saying. “Look, Mom, they’ve got Ninja Turtles comic books!”

  “They’re used, aren’t they? They look pretty beat up.”

  “S’okay, they’re still good. Can I get some?”

  “Up to you, Jamie, how you spend your vacation money,” his mother said. “But remember that you might want something else, somewhere along the line.”

  The bell on the front door jangled again, and they all turned toward it. A woman of about fifty came in, wearing a plaid house dress, sandals, and white socks. Her hair was caught up in a hairnet the likes of which the bishop hadn’t seen since his grandmother had died, and her face was red from the heat.

  “Hey,” she greeted. “Harvey around?”

  “We haven’t seen anybody. We called, but nobody seems to be minding the store,” the bishop replied.

  “Oh. Well, reckon I know where he is,” she said, moving purposefully toward the back of the building. “This is the slow time of day around here, and I just bet he’s takin’ him a nap. He’s got him a little room back here with an air-conditioner, and he prob’ly ain’t heard ya’ll come in.” She pounded on a door in the back wall. “Harvey! Harve, you got customers, boy! Where you at?” />
  After a moment, the door opened, and the “boy,” of about sixty years of age, shuffled through, stifling a yawn.

  “Hey, how ya’ll?” he said. “Sorry ’bout that—reckon the heat got to me. That and the fact that I was up early this mornin’, pickin’ beans and corn ’fore it heated up. Now what can I do for you folks? Bet ya’ll young ’uns could do with an ice-cream bar, couldn’t you? No charge, of course.” He handed each a bar, for which he was politely thanked.

  “We mostly stopped for information,” the bishop explained. “We’re down here from Alabama searching out my grandfather’s history, and we know he and his wife lived in Winns Corner when they were first married. Her folks—the Burkes—came from around here, and we suspect his did, too, but we don’t know much of anything about them.”

  “What was your granddaddy’s name?” Harvey asked.

  “Benjamin Rice,” the bishop replied. “He died young. His wife was Annie Josephine Burke. We wondered if you could point us toward some cemeteries around here that we could search.”

  Harvey scratched his head, then smoothed the sparse gray hair over it. “I know there used to was a Burke family had a farm about five mile north of here,” he said. “Seems like it was their daughter got the place when they died, and she married a Winn. This town was named for her husband’s people,” he explained.

  The bishop could barely hear Tiffani’s cynical comment, “This is a town?” He hoped Harvey didn’t hear it.

  “Don’t recall nobody named Rice, though,” the man continued. “May? You know anybody around here named Rice? Back a generation or two, most likely?”

  May heaved a twenty-pound sack of sugar onto the counter. “Rice? Don’t ring a bell with me. Miss Susie might know; she’s been here nigh onto forever, and she’s eighty-some-odd years old. Here—I can give you directions to her place.”

  “Thanks, we’ll appreciate that. And are there any cemeteries in the area?” Jim asked.

  “There’s two—three old ones,” May answered. “When’d your grandpa die?”

  “We think around 1919.”

  “Oh, that ain’t so old—he might could be in the Baptist cemetery. Was he a Baptist?”

  The bishop shook his head. “We don’t know, but we’d sure appreciate some directions to that one and any others you might know about.”

  Harvey and May regarded each other.

  “Let’s see,” Harvey said. “’Course, there’s King’s Chapel. That’s out on Highway 32, and off into the woods, past the old tobaccy barn. Bower family used to have a big old tobaccy plantation, till old man Bower got religion and decided smokin’ was of the devil,” he explained. “Or so I heard,” he added with a grin. “Anyhow, the dryin’ barn’s still standin’, and you go past it for a little ways, and the buryin’ ground’s on the left. It ain’t kept up too good, though, so watch out for snakes and all. Me, reckon I’d start with the Baptist cemetery. It’s got perpetual care.”

  “Okay. Where’s that?”

  “Oh, it’s right by the First Freewill Baptist Church, on the road to Dawson. You cain’t miss it. The Freewill folks donated the land, but they take all Baptist burials—Primitive, Missionary, Hardshell, Southern, Baptist Temple, and so on. It’s about fifteen—sixteen miles from here.”

  May added, “Then there’s the old Methodist graveyard, out towards Eads. Church is gone, now, but the cemetery’s still there, of course—I mean, reckon it ain’t goin’ anywheres, is it?” May laughed at herself. “I think it’s still used once in a while, in fact. I know the Methodist ladies go out ever’ Memorial Day and make a project of cleanin’ it up. But these days, lots of people like to be buried in the city cemeteries, like in Albany or Bainbridge.”

  “Thank you,” said the bishop, scribbling down directions to compare with his atlas in the car. “Any others?”

  “Well, you know—just folks who used to bury their dead on their own places, though by the time you’re lookin’ at, most people were usin’ the reg’lar cemeteries. I’m not sure when the law started about that, but nobody does it, no more. Not openly, anyhow.” May smiled. She told them how to get to “Miss Susie’s” place, and they prepared to take their leave, with Mallory gleefully clutching a dusty Barbie box and Jamie a handful of comic books. Tiffani had found a couple of paperbacks that interested her, and Trish had purchased a little pair of hand-crocheted baby booties. The bishop wistfully eyed the chilled watermelons.

  “If we get back this way by evening, I’m going to have to have one of those,” he told Harvey, who chuckled.

  “I tell you what, they’re mighty fine,” he promised. “Good old-fashioned Georgia rattlesnakes.”

  The bishop carried the twenty-pound sack of sugar to May’s car for her.

  “Well, I thank you, sir—you’re a real gentleman.”

  “What do you plan to do with all that sugar?” Trish asked pleasantly. “Are you canning?”

  “Oh, hon—I got me a ton of blackberries on my place,” May responded. “I’ll make up several batches of jam and jelly, and a few pies, and Harvey’ll sell ’em here for me. A little later, I’ll do some crabapple. Makes me a little extra spendin’ money. Comes in handy ’round Christmas time.”

  “Sounds yummy. Thanks for your help with the cemeteries and Miss Susie.”

  “No problem. Good luck findin’ Grandpa.” She started to get into her car, then turned and asked, “Where y’all stayin’ at?”

  The bishop responded. “Last night we were at the Southern Belle Motel, about thirty miles south of here. Do you happen to know of a nice place closer around here, since this seems to be our point of interest right now?”

  May smiled. “Not around close, but to tell you the truth, I was thinkin’ of my place. Got me a big old shady farmhouse, and all my young ’uns are gone. I could give you as many bedrooms as you want, plus supper and breakfast, for about thirty dollars. The young ’uns might enjoy my critters—I got goats, and a donkey, and a dog and cats and chickens. Got me one air-conditioned bedroom besides my own, and the other rooms have fans. I’d be plumb tickled to have ya’ll stay.”

  The bishop didn’t know what to say. He looked at Trish, who seemed intrigued, and he could see his children weighing the advantages of swimming pool and air-conditioning versus a farmyard full of animals to play with. For Mallory, at least, the choice was clear: she smiled hopefully and teetered on her tiptoes to exert whatever influence she could on her parents. Tiffani, on the other hand, frowned, and Jamie looked interested but neutral. Their dad thought back to childhood visits to Shepherd’s Pass, and to his Uncle Ben’s farm as a boy.

  “I think that’d be fun, for all of us,” he said, relieved that Trish nodded.

  “We hate to put you out, though,” she added. “That’s a lot of work, to put us all up and prepare meals too, when it sounds like you already have your work cut out for you.”

  “Oh, hon, it’ll be my pleasure. I like to keep folks whenever I can. I don’t advertise like a fancy bed and breakfast, but ever’ now and then I get a referral, or a call from somebody who’s got family coming and nowhere to put ’em. I just rattle around in that big house and talk to my animals all day long till I think I’m goin’ crazy! I’ll enjoy havin’ somebody around who talks back.” She laughed, and winked at Mallory. “The animals do answer me, mind you, it’s just we don’t speak the same language.”

  “Well, we’ll look forward to it. Now, how do we find your place?” the bishop asked.

  “So are ya’ll headed to see Miss Susie first? If you are, my house is just off the road on the way to hers, and you can foller me and see where I turn off. My house’ll be in the first clump of trees you come to. Hers is further along the highway about twelve miles or so. It’s a pink Victorian on the left. You won’t miss it.”

  They thanked her again and climbed into their car.

  “Dad,” Tiffani said, as soon as their doors were closed, “you don’t know what kind of place that woman has, or if it’s even clean! Or if sh
e’s a good cook, or her beds are comfortable, or her animals are friendly to kids, or—”

  “I know, Tiff—all those thoughts went through my mind, too,” her dad soothed. “But I just have a good feeling about taking her up on her offer. I’m not sure why, to tell the truth. It’s not just the price, though that’s way beyond generous. Even if we pay her more than she’s asking, it’ll be much less than a night at the Southern Belle and two restaurant meals. I think it sounds like fun.”

  “I do, too,” Trish agreed. “I mean, every detail might not be just as we’d like it, but, hey—for one night, we should be fine. We’ll be sure to find another place with a nice pool before we head home, right, Jim?”

  “Sure thing. Let’s just take things as they come, okay, guys? That’s part of the fun of this kind of trip.”

  Tiffani’s look said she seriously doubted her parents’ judgment, but she sat back and opened her book.

  * * *

  May was right about Miss Susie’s pink Victorian—it would have been hard to miss. Trimmed with white “gingerbread” and a veranda that stretched halfway around the house, it stood in serene, ladylike splendor against a backdrop of azaleas and live oaks.

  “Oh, my,” breathed Trish. “It’s exquisite.”

  “It looks like it popped out of my Candyland game,” offered Mallory.

  “Yeah, it does,” Jamie agreed, his voice awed.

  Even Tiffani was intrigued. “Now, I wouldn’t mind spending the night here,” she announced.

  “Let’s go see if Miss Susie’s receiving callers,” the bishop suggested.

  The door chimes were answered by a slender black woman in a pink uniform with a frilly white apron.

  “Good afternoon,” she said in a soft voice. “May I help y’all?”

  “Hello,” the bishop responded. “We’ve come to see Miss Susie. Is she available?”

  “Is she expecting you? May I give her your name?”

  He shook his head. “We’re the Shepherd family, from Alabama, but she won’t have heard of us,” he explained. “A couple of neighbors have told us that she knows a great deal about local family history, and my grandparents were from this area, so we were hoping she might be able to tell us something about them.”