Scrapped by Mollie Cox Bryan Page A

drawing Beatrice back to the present. “Are you ready?” she yelled at Beatrice.
    Beatrice just shook her head. “What do you think? I’m standing here for my health?”
    Vera waved her mother’s attitude off and reached over to open the door.
    “Where’s Elizabeth?” Beatrice said, looking into the empty backseat.
    “She’s with her dad. She’s got a little fever. Teething, I think.”
    “Aunt Rose will be disappointed.”
    “Well, if it matters that much to her, she could come down off that mountain,” Vera said, looking into her side mirror and pulling back onto the quiet road.
    Beatrice chortled. “I’ve been telling her that for fifty years.”
    “I’ve never understood it.”
    “Me neither,” Beatrice said. “But it makes her happy to stay. It’s her domain, and it seems to work out for her. Where are you going?” she asked, because Vera was going in the wrong direction.
    “Annie’s coming along. I thought it would be good for her to meet Aunt Rose. I asked Sheila to come, but something’s up with her oldest daughter, Donna,” Vera said as she pulled over to the curb and tooted her horn.
    Annie’s door flung open, she turned to kiss her husband, and they were off.
    “So this woman has never ventured off the mountain?” Annie said later, after she was situated in the car, as they turned off the main road.
    “That’s right,” Beatrice said. “And she has an in with all the mountain folk—even the nesters and Mennonites. She’s an herbalist. Knows her stuff. They call her before they call a doctor. That used to drive Ed crazy.”
    “Oh, I remember . . . ,” Vera said in a faraway voice.
    Beatrice loved this old road. She knew every twist and turn, every bump and dip. She loved the way fields on either side gave way to heavy woods, with high tree branches swaying over the road.
    “You know who else knows a lot about herbs? Cookie,” Annie said. “She also knows about runes.”
    “Runes?” Beatrice said.
    “Yes. Cookie figured out that’s what those symbols are that were carved into the bodies and painted on your house.”
    “You don’t say,” Beatrice said, digging in a cloth bag. “Scone? I just made them this morning. I call them my good-for-travel cinnamon scones.”
    Annie reached her hand in the bag and pulled one out for Vera, who reached for it and then suddenly swerved as a loud thud, thud came from the rattling car.
    “Damn,” Vera said, pulling over. “Must be a flat tire. Anybody know how to change one?”
    Annie shrugged, still eating her scone.
    “Surely we can figure it out,” Beatrice said. “But what a pain in the ass. Can’t you call someone?”
    “Mother,” Vera said, opening her door. “Who would I call out here?”
    “Does the cell even work?” Annie pulled out her phone. Dead.
    “Lord, how did civilization manage without the cell phone?” Beatrice said, getting out of the car. “Let’s see. That is a very flat tire.” She bent down and touched it. “What is that?” She reached her finger and felt along the rubber. There was not just one, but three huge nails puncturing the tire. “Nails.”
    “Do you have a spare?” Annie said.
    “I’ve no idea,” Vera said. “Bill’s always dealt with these things. Where would it be?”
    “Probably in the trunk,” Annie replied.
    Beatrice harrumphed. “Yeah, probably. Thank God you didn’t bring Elizabeth. This will probably take some time.”
    Annie and Vera slipped out of the car to a cool day and took in sweeping views of mountains and farms in the distance. Annie rolled up her sleeves.
    “I’m sure we can figure this out,” she said, lifting the trunk.
    After messing with the jack and getting nowhere, Annie tried to place it again. “It looks like it should go right there,” she muttered as she crouched down beside the tire, smelling the rubber, the grease, and the gravel from the road. It would help if she felt better. She felt so weak these days. Maybe she just needed more