Art's Blood by Vicki Lane Page B

a quilt at the edge of a field, waved at me when the train made one of its many stops to pick up or discharge a passenger at some rural crossroads, and I saw that his feet were bare though the air was still cold.
    Miss Geneva, as she was called by one and all, met me at the train station in a quaint farm wagon pulled by a sorrel mule. She raised her eyebrows at the amount of baggage that I had with me, but said nothing beyond, I hope we have room; I’ve been buying supplies.
    Indeed, the wagon bed was heaped with boxes and bags and it was only with much careful maneuvering that my three large valises were added to the rest. I sent up a silent prayer of thanks that I had not, as Mother wished, brought my steamer trunk too.
    Miss Geneva, a short sturdy woman of about forty, handled the reins skillfully, urging the red mule into a quick walk as we turned onto the rutted wagon road that led to Shut In and the Appalachian Women’s Crafts Center. She explained that while the Center owned an automobile, it was difficult to manage on the unpaved back roads, as well as being prone to inexplicable breakdowns. And as I’m no mechanic, she told me, and Caro won’t even learn to drive an automobile, we bought old Pete and the wagon from a family that was moving to Detroit.
    I replied somewhat absently for I was looking all about me in wide-eyed wonder, trying to absorb the new sights. Miss Geneva said nothing for a time, then exclaimed, I hope you’ll stay longer than our last recruit. She took one look at our outhouse and had me drive her back to the station. I shuddered inwardly but answered that I was prepared to “rough it.” Miss Geneva laughed, not unkindly, and said, We’ll see.
    We had been traveling for some while when we pulled up at a big log house with a tidy front yard a-bloom with jonquils. I’m going to pick up work from two of our girls, Miss Geneva said, handing me the reins. Pull back hard if he tries any foolishness.
    She climbed down from the wagon and approached the house, calling out, Fanchon! Tildy! Almost immediately the front door opened and one of the loveliest creatures I had ever seen stepped out to the porch. Be right there, Miss Geneva, she sang out. The faded shapeless housedress could not conceal her perfect form, and her thick, wavy red-blonde hair skewered in a loose knot atop her head brought immediately to mind the words “crowning glory.” At this time almost all other girls of her age had succumbed to the Dutch bob or Eton crop— short severe haircuts that made pretty girls plain and plain girls ugly. Fanchon’s hair, as I would learn later, fell below her waist.
    She ducked back into the house for a moment, then reappeared with a large bundle wrapped in burlap. Behind her with a similar bundle was another girl, also in her late teens but of such different appearance. She was lumpish and sallow and her mousy brown hair, cut fashionably short, frizzed uncontrollably around her blotchy face. Hard luck on her if they are sisters, I thought.
    The girls brought their bundles out to the wagon and were introduced. Fanchon, the beauty, was shy and would hardly look at me, but Tildy at once peppered me with questions about where I had come from and what was my dress made of and whose picture did I have in that there locket. I could understand less than half of her chatter, so thick was her mountain brogue, and I found her eager importuning a trifle distasteful.
    As indeed, I think, did Miss Geneva. The minute the bundles were crammed in amongst the supplies and my valises, she climbed back to the wagon seat and took the reins. That’ll do for now, Tildy. Miss Lily will be at the Center when you come to get your earnings and to pick up more material. Miss Geneva hesitated, then said to her, almost unwillingly, We have a special project in mind for you. Her tone was brusque but her voice softened when she turned to Fanchon. You come too, child.
    As we traveled on, Miss Geneva told me about the two