Chapter 4

Say what you will about the South and its culture, but our food makes life

more bearable. Nothing like cheese grits, over-easy eggs, large slabs of

greasy bacon and biscuits and gravy to make a hangover disappear.

I’m eating way too much and I know it. I feel like a hunger victim at a

feast. Carmine raises an eyebrow when I reach for another biscuit but it’s

been years since I’ve had white gravy.

“You might want to pace yourself, ******,” Carmine says, raising that

annoying eyebrow.

The city’s tourism director arrives, a perky woman with a nice smile and

an armful of swag. Everyone gets a press packet and an accompanying bag

nicely adorned with a big ribbon on top. I can’t wait to see what’s inside.

She gives her speech about northwest Arkansas and what’s in store for us

during the next few days, talking mostly about her area of expertise, which is

the Bentonville-Rogers area, but I’m too busy focusing on the drum player in

my head. I motion the waitress for another cup of coffee, but it’s suddenly

time to go and we’re rushed out the door. I get my coffee to go and thankfully

don’t spill it on my way to the back of the van.

We’re headed to tour the Walmart Museum this time and I take the

opportunity to peek inside my gift bag. It contains a Bentonville coffee mug

and some assorted Arkansas state tourism do-dads such as a luggage tag

sporting “Visit Arkansas State Parks,” a keychain from the Clinton Library

and a wine opener announcing some festival. Cool. For a woman rebuilding

her life after losing everything, I’m grateful.

The rest of the van is moaning about having to lug things back on the

plane, particularly breakables like mugs (I get the feeling mugs are a common

occurrence and these folks want nothing of them).

“I’ll take whatever you all don’t want,” I say, thinking a set of matching

coffee mugs could be used for company when they come to tea. Okay, I’m

kidding! Well, sort of. Much to my surprise, everyone — and I mean

everyone — eagerly hands me their bags. I gather up what will become my

Bentonville coffee set and feel thrilled. I’m sorry my mother with her uptown

values and designer clothes isn’t here to witness my fall from grace.

The Walmart Museum offers the story of Sam Walton, his dream that

resulted in enormous wealth and possibly the death of small-town America,

although I never say as much. After a quick overview, we head to the

Bentonville tourism office around ten for coffee and bakery treats — yes,

more food, and yes, I eat some, plus stick a scone in my purse in case I get

hungry later — then pile into the vans for a driving tour of Bentonville that’s

a mix between Arkansas historic and Made in China. We pause at the lovely

Compton Gardens and I’m thankful for the fresh air and exercise, even if it’s

no more than a short walk. Then we’re back on the road, heading to lunch,

which makes me regret that extra biscuit, not to mention the sticky bun at the

tourism office. This will be our final destination together before we

reconvene in Eureka Springs for dinner and more food.

Once again, the owner of the quaint restaurant brings out platters of

appetizers, extolling the food’s quality, followed by a specialty soup, salads

for those who need greens (I’m not one of them, although Miss OnlySeafood-Within-100-Miles insists upon it), entrees and a plethora of desserts.

I think if someone pokes me I shall burst.

We split up in the parking lot, Carrie taking me, Winnie and the couple

from Wisconsin to Eureka Springs via Sycamore Cave. Alicia hails Richard

and Irene to her van for a visit to Turpentine Creek Wildlife Refuge with no

doubt Richard nabbing the front seat; I overhear him mentioning car sickness.

Henry and Carmine will hit a round of golf somewhere.

This time, Faux Joe gallantly opens the front door for me, which makes

me feel guilty for labeling him that. I glance back at the others, offering my

front row perch. Everyone politely declines and Joe smiles as he closes my

door. Photographer or not, he's a good man in my book.

Winnie takes the back row again and stretches out, leaving the middle

aisle for the journalism duo. I turn and make small talk, learning that

Stephanie and Joe have been publishing their travel newsletter for years,

hailing back to the days when newsletters arrived in your mailbox. They now

have a blog, podcasts and a local radio show, and I admire their tenacity.

Alicia proves harder to dissect, fresh out of Florida State with a public

relations degree, very sweet and polite but either told not to say much or is

feeling self-conscious about doing so. She answers when spoken to and

explains little bits of info on the area, but that’s about it.

I spend most of the hour talking to the Wisconsin duo about the possible

demise of the newspaper as we know it while Winnie takes a nap in the back.

After twists and turns through the Ozarks we travel down a tree-shaded

driveway to the cave’s entrance. On the right is a two-story stone house with

charming gables and an oversized front porch, no doubt where the owners

live. I immediately romance the lifestyle of living in the woods, operating a

cave for a living, waking up to greenery and birds, maybe owning a cat or

two. I tend to do that, drive down country roads and imagine the lives of

people in the ranch house, the woodsy cottage, the sprawling farmhouse.

Would I be happy chucking everything and living in the sticks? Doubtful, but

then, anything looks better than a potting shed in the rear of an estate house

that’s seen grander days. Not that I’m complaining. I wonder if my handsome

landlord has looked at the busted pipe under my sink when I feel a set of

gazes upon me; the hairs on my neck have come to attention.

I turn and find I’m right. Everyone is exiting the van. “What did I miss?”

“We’re starting in the gift shop,” Winnie says to me as she passes,

rubbing her eyes. “Where did you go?”

If I had been born ten years later, they would have put Adderal in my

formula. No one called me ADHD in school. It was more like “space cadet”

and “spaz.” I used to tell people I was working on my Nobel Peace Prize

speech. Today, I tell people I’m working on my novel. That doesn’t fly

either.

We follow the owners into a building that’s not so charming, something

built in the seventies no doubt to accommodate tourists but screaming in

contrast to the sweet farmhouse up the road. Still, the windows let in treebalanced sunshine and a cool breeze and we all turn ADHD as we gaze upon

the gaudy trinkets, T-shirts, gardening accessories and a vast collection of

rocks and minerals while the owners, Bud and Charlene Moseley, tell the

history of the cave. Despite my lack of some brain chemical, I can listen to

the story while perusing the shelves. In fact, moving around or holding items

in my hands helps me focus.

The cave was discovered in the mid-1800s by a couple exploring the lake.

They picked up a hot fishing spot and followed it to a remote cove blanketed

by sycamore trees. When they stopped to enjoy lunch, the wife stumbled

upon the entrance to the cave.

“She had to pee,” I mumbled, enjoying the smooth surface of a polished

angelite.

Charlene laughs and I suddenly realize I spoke that out loud. “You’re

probably right,” Charlene says. “What woman wouldn’t?”

I place the angelite back in its box, thinking I should focus more by

actually making eye contact.

“Around the turn of the century,” Bud continues, “a family by the name

of Jones bought the land and opened it up for tours, mainly attracting visitors

who came for the waters at Eureka Springs. They used to advertise that

waters deep within the cave would cure diseases, but there’s only one spring

that we have found in the cave and it’s inaccessible.”

“We’ve only owned the property for eight months,” Charlene interjects.

“We haven’t thoroughly investigated the entire cave yet.”

Stephanie asks when they will open the entire cave so she can adequately

report this to her readers and the couple explains their construction schedule,

how they are adding a boardwalk, a nature hike and a corn maze in the fall as

added attractions. When Stephanie starts asking about details, my mind

wonders back to the angelite. The light-blue stone has been cut into a heart

and polished and when I pick it up again, sits warm in my palm. People

believe angelite assists its owners with spiritual communication. When Lillye

died, I bought several, placed them throughout my house in the hopes that I

could hear her voice one more time. The effort was futile and I’m trying to

convince myself to place this rock — it’s only a rock, after all — back on the

shelf when I feel someone approach from behind.

“You picked that stone up twice,” Charlene says to me. “I think it wants

to go home with you.”

Goosebumps charge up my body as if they are racing with one another to

reach my neck. Wasn’t that the very thing Aunt Mimi told me when I visited

her cave? I shiver as if to shake off the feeling but I find the angelite remains

in my hand.

“I think I will buy this one,” I say to Charlene, adding, “It’s a lovely

color” to keep her from thinking I’m buying it for any other reason.

To my surprise, Charlene places her hand beneath mine and folds her

fingers and mine over the angelite. “My gift,” is all she says and heads back

to Bud who is opening the back door.

“Y’all ready?” Bud calls out.

I slip my angelite into my pocket and follow the line out the door. I’m the

last one on the long woodsy path down to the lake and the cave and I’m

missing most of what is being spoken at the front of the line. I don’t mind

because it allows me an opportunity to drop back and enjoy the sycamores

and maples, witness a chipmunk scurrying across the way and listen to birds

calling out from the treetops. The path is a switchback down a steep decline

and the lake comes into view every few yards, teasing us with its placid blue

waters, making us want more. By the time we reach the bottom of the trail, I

hear snippets about Native Americans and how they used the cave, dating

back centuries. Suddenly, I wish I had been closer. Yet, the peacefulness of

the woods embraces me like a mother and I find my soul lifting. I will ask

Winnie later what I missed.

We follow the lake for a small time before the cave comes into view.

Indeed, Bud and Charlene have their work cut out to make this attraction

more tourist friendly. For now, those in wheelchairs have no access and they

are working on that, they say. The path heading inside is rugged and bumpy

and sometimes difficult for those of us on two feet with boots. I stumble,

naturally, and Winnie laughs.

“LSU wimp,” she whispers back at me.

“Redneck colonels,” I whisper back, and we both giggle like college

students.

We pause at the first area large enough for a group to assemble, where a

few stalactites drip from the ceiling and pools of milky water form at the

floor. A hole in the rock ceiling allows for light to cascade down and the

illuminating effect is remarkable. We all take a moment to enjoy this delicate

balance of light and water and I can feel our shared energy of awe.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Bud asks.

“Very nice,” Stephanie answers, while Joe pulls out a small tripod and

shoots a bunch of photos. He kneels ever so slightly to catch the water

dripping into a particularly lovely pool, its drops sending circles through the

water as if in slow motion. I won’t doubt his abilities again.

“As we said, records have indicated that the Native Americans of this

area used the cave, although for what we don’t know for sure.” Bud points to

unusual markings on the wall behind us. “A local archaeologist claims those

pre-date white settlers to this area. We’ve heard lots of stories from locals

that Indians used this cave for the spring waters. One local historian believes

those signs mean ‘a special place for water.’”

“Where is the spring?” Winnie asks.

Bud and Charlene look at each other and Charlene laughs nervously. “It’s

down a long, dark corridor that’s very dangerous,” Bud says. “Once we get

the cave up to where we want it to be, we will start exploring and developing

that side.”

“But if that’s where this special spring is, wouldn’t that be a high

priority,” Winnie insists. She looks at me and gives me a “Duh?” look, and I

agree. That’s what I would want to see, just like those early twentieth century

tourists coming over from Eureka Springs.

Charlene scratches her head, looks away and offers up that nervous laugh

again, like the criminals I used to interview for the newspaper, the ones who

would claim they were innocent while avoiding your eyes and shuffling their

feet. There’s more to this story, I think.

Winnie starts to retort but Bud turns and begins talking about the Civil

War markings a few yards away, claiming that these scribblings left by

retreating Confederates never fail to attract history buffs and re-enactors.

Personally, graffiti doesn’t interest me. I’ve seen it in other Southern caves

and find it as distasteful as the gang markings lining the streets of New

Orleans. I look up at the ceiling where light filters down and let the sun bath

my face before descending into darkness. Nature is perfect just the way it is.

It only takes a few yards of walking from the hole in the ceiling before we

can’t see without the aid of Bud and Charlene’s lantern. At this point, the

couple hands us all flashlights and we continue on our way.

“They are definitely not ready to open for tourists,” Winnie whispers.

“You could kill yourself in here.”

As if hearing us — although I know we were well out of earshot —

Charlene begins shouting from the front that for now they do specialized

guided tours for those who want a real cave experience. So far, they have

been mostly catering to college students coming over from Fayetteville.

At the mention of the University of Arkansas, another esteemed member

of the Southeastern football conference, Winnie and I both scrunch our noses

in disdain.

“Razorbacks!” she whispers, and I fight off the giggles.

We stop when the tunnel becomes tight and it’s now completely dark

except for the faint glow of our flashlights. As we shine our beacons around

us we see a delightful dwelling of stalagmites emerging from the cave floor.

Off to the right, next to where the couple is pointing is a collection of soldier

names scratched upon the wall.

Bud is obviously a Civil War fan for he begins relating battles that

occurred in Arkansas and their significance to the Southern cause. I find the

Civil War tiring, a simple case of not doing the right thing in regards to

slavery, that resulted in the loss of so many lives. I’m not a fan of either side,

mind you. I find war ridiculous, like children fighting over toys. But the Civil

War happened on my turf, so its legacy lingers throughout my homeland. I

love Southern history, particularly Louisiana, but you can have the blue and

grey nonsense.

Since I’m once again at the back of the line, I slink back and explore the

unusual natural formations that surround me. There’s a particularly gorgeous

stalagmite off to the side, but I have to practically crawl to get a better view

and snap a photo. I figured it’s worth it, but I suddenly find myself slipping

down a slick decline that seems to go on forever. I keep moving, hoping the

momentum will help me remain on my feet, and quickly slip the camera into

my jacket pocket for safe keeping. No matter how I attempt to right myself,

several yards later I’m flat on my butt on the cold, wet floor. I slide my hands

into my pockets to make sure my camera is okay — it is — and find the

angelite cool and humming.

Before I can regain my composure, a wave of goosebumps skitters up my

arms and my head feels light and dizzy. I slowly stand, trying to recoup my

equilibrium and it’s then that I hear a soft whimpering to my right. My first

thought is that it’s an animal trapped in the darkness, unable to find its way

out. I swallow hard, hoping it’s nothing prone to attacking people, and slowly

make my way back from whence I came. The more I head back towards the

others, however, the stronger the sound, and the goosebumps double. As I

round the corner and lock my boot on a solid rock, I’m able to pull myself

back up the path. Here, the sound is strongest. I’m almost sure now that it’s

right next to me. Only it’s not an animal.

I raise my flashlight slowly, trying to keep the beam steady from all my

shaking. I’m scared to death, have no idea what the light will uncover. In the

darkness all I can make out for sure is the sound of a young girl softly crying.

When the light meets the origin of the sound, it is indeed a girl of about

sixteen or seventeen, dressed in old-fashioned school clothes of a mid-calf

white pleated skirt, white shirt and a little navy blue tie around her neck that

reminds me of sailor outfits. She’s sitting in a pool of water, legs outstretched

before her with cuts and bruises appearing where her tights are torn and her

skin exposed. I try to make out her face but her right hand is placed over her

right eye as she whimpers, rocking back and forth agitated.

“Are you okay?” I ask, my voice shaking. What on earth is this girl doing

here? I don’t know what frightens me more, the fact that I may be witnessing

another ghost or finally losing my mind. And yet, this girl appears so real,

down to the dark clay marring her shoes.

She glances up at me and her eyes narrow in anger. She stops

whimpering, instead holding up her right hand like a cop signaling a car to

stop, as if she wants me to get a good look at her fingers and palm. Her hand

is covered in blood, captured, no doubt, from the gaping wound in her

forehead that I now witness. I sense this girl is just now figuring out she’s

been hurt and wants to express her rage over the accident to someone. Did

she fall here like I did? Was she part of a school group that may have been

here before our arrival? But then why wouldn’t the Moseleys know about it?

Before I can inquire further, the girl’s face contorts into rage, she lurches

toward me and screams with all her might. I’m so startled by her piercing and

angry outburst that I stumble backwards in an effort to put distance between

us. My first thought is she will do me harm and I reach out to find the path to

get away. In my rushed attempt to do so, my head hits the stone wall behind

me. Hard. I don’t realize immediately that I have done damage to myself,

stand swaying like an idiot while the schoolgirl yells to the high heavens. The

world tilts and fades and I notice the blood across the girl’s lap before total

darkness consumes me.

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