Little cash-register sounds went off in my head. If Gray Eyes paid enough, I could quit borrowing from my mother, an act I enjoyed about as much as gargling turpentine. Why? Because Mother was the only one left on the ranch I had told Gray Eyes I owned. In fact,
she
owned the ranch, not me, but it belonged to me in the sense that I knew each bluff and swale, each blade of grass, and each beam in the barn. The ranch was woven into the very fabric of my soul. But until Mother left, I could not be there. She might be sober now, but sobriety had not healed our relationship.
Money, money, money. The ranch was small, as semiarid ranchland went, just a few square miles of short-grass prairie, not enough to raise much beef. I knew that since my father’s death and the last drought, and with the rise in the cost of feed and labor and the continued sluggish prices in beef, my mother had been struggling financially, but she had been only too willing to loan me the money to get my degree. “With a master’s,” she had said, “you might get a real job.” I had bitten my tongue, figuring to repay her by taking over the ranch the instant she was ready to give up the charade and move to town. She didn’t belong there, not really. She had been born gagging on a silver spoon in Boston. But, forty years after thumbing her nose at her family by running away to Wyoming with the cowboy who had been my father, she still spoke with a Brahmin accent as she addressed her neighbors with a dry, stinging, ironic New England wit that sailed past them like so many cow chips in a high wind.
I drummed my fingers. The ranch might have been purchased with her money (or, more accurately, her father’s money), but my father had built every foot of fence and dug every inch of irrigation ditch. In my angrier moments, I blamed his overwork for his early demise, even as I longed to pick up where he had left off. But she had sent me away again and again.
I took several long, deep breaths, trying once again to let go of a past in which the milk of being in a land I loved was always curdled by the vinegar of human failings.
About now, Faye would be giving me a pep talk on the
art of letting go,
I told myself.
If she were here. And if she were still talking to me
. I cringed at how truly accurate Tanya’s observation had been: Faye and I now communicated with about the frequency and to approximately the depth that my parents had done, three and a half decades into the disappointment they’d called a marriage. I was playing Clyde Hansen’s stoic servant to Leila Bradstreet Hansen’s self-indulgence. I had re-created my family drama—and to what gain? None. If I didn’t get a grip on myself soon, I’d wind up as prematurely dead as my father or as eternally self-destructive as my mother.
I stopped to calculate how old my mother was now. I reckoned sixty-three: She had borne me when she was just shy of twenty-five. She still had her looks, and was disgustingly strong, physically speaking. Her body had weathered decades of alcohol abuse, and now more than half a decade of hard physical labor. How long had it been since Daddy died? Six years? Or was it seven?
In all the months I had studied the ceiling while thinking my thoughts, I had made a pretty thorough map of the patterns in the drywall texturing. To the right of center was the land of big blotches that formed a shape like a canoe, and to the left, the isthmus of the funny guy with only one leg. One-Leg reminded me of myself, forever hopping around, never quite whole.
My eyes shifted to other figures I had traced in the plaster. A long, sinuous line could be Faye, skating toward the edge of reality, ready to date again, having been widowed now longer than she was married. The blob next to it could be good ol’ Em Hansen, now starring in the supporting role as the cuckolded roommate with gender confusion. And was that jagged bit to the other side of her Tert Krehbeil? What did Faye see in him? Why was she reverting to her snob-ridden past? Would regression help wall off the memory of Tom? Better a self-absorbed bit of fluff from Pennsylvania than a man who took one last risk and was killed? And was it my job to save her from this fate, or was I, in fact, part of the problem?
Enough of this maundering self-pity,
I decided.
Time to go out for a walk. Restore the body, and the spirit will follow
.
Outside, the day was warming, and I had walked only a few blocks before I needed to open my jacket. Flowers were beginning to peek out of the gardens I passed, and all but the last dirty, icy chunks of snow piled up in the deepest north-side shadows had melted away. My mood lightened, and I even got to rolling my hips a little in a sort of celebration of spring.
Which in turn immediately soured my mood again. Sensual motion in my pelvis reminded me of Jack, and where the hell was he?
I tripped over a break in the sidewalk, and as I lurched to catch myself, my head snapped forward so fast that for a moment I could see through my own self-interest. I had no idea who Gray Eyes was as a person, not really; and although no one could replace Tom Latimer, he was dead, and life went on.
Everybody’s life is going on but mine!
whined my nasty little brain. Now desperate to escape myself, I leaned forward and began to jog, and then to run. I made three blocks before I got winded, at which juncture I turned right and right again and headed back toward the house. I was coming down the straightaway, slowing back to a shambling jog, when I was passed by a man who was really moving along, all fleet feet and sopping-wet sweat suit. He hoofed it three houses past Faye’s and then pulled up, jogged up the front walkway, put his hands on the bottom step of the porch, and began pumping off push-ups.
Who’s this?
I wondered.
A Realtor’s sign saying FOR SALE had stood on the front lawn for several weeks, and was now surmounted by a smaller sign that read SOLD.
I put my hands in my pockets and wandered over to make his acquaintance. “Hi,” I said. “You must be a new neighbor. I’m Em Hansen. Welcome to the neighborhood.”
The man pushed himself upright with one big shove, turned, took me in with a quick glance, smiled, and said, “Hi yourself. I’m Fritz Calder.”
Oooo, macho … Much taller and more manly than Mr. Gray Eyes. And he lives right here!
My mind took off like a dart, computing a much better future for Faye and Sloane that would joyously include me, now featured in the role of the savior who had found the right man for them.
Fritz asked, “Which house do you live in?”
I pointed. “The house actually belongs to my housemate, Faye,” I replied, grinning at the match this was going to make.
He’s athletic, good-looking
… “She’s not here just now. Just ran up to Wyoming with the baby for a few days.”
The flicker of a thought crossed Fritz Calder’s eyes. He shifted his pose slightly. As his spine relaxed, I realized that until then he had been standing extraordinarily straight, almost as if at attention. He leaned over
against one of the posts that held up his porch roof and began stretching the muscles down the side of his torso. “Baby girl or baby boy?”
“Girl. Sloane Renee.”
“Sweet name. I like kids.”
“Oh. Do you and your wife have children?” I inquired, belatedly wondering if there might be impediments to my plan. I glanced toward the front windows of his house, hoping I would not glimpse any other inmates. I calculated that he was about the same age as Faye and I were, or perhaps a bit older; if he was Mormon (about a fifty-percent likelihood in this town), that meant a wife and a passel of kids ranging from teenagers down through grade-schoolers. I glanced at the house. Not big enough for a tribe like that.
He stared at the ground for a moment, hands on his hips. “I have one kid, Brendan. He’s nine years old and likes Legos and soccer. And I have one ex-wife, Marsha, and she’s … not my wife anymore.” Having gotten this off his chest, he went back to his stretches, which now evolved into broad, smooth swings of his arms.
I was indeed enjoying the show, especially now that he had relaxed around me, but I shifted into a posture that said I did not notice such things. I had committed myself to Jack Sampler, and it was best, therefore, to send the proper signals. “So, as long as I’m the welcoming committee, let me grill you good and proper. What brings you to the neighborhood?”
“Business opportunities. I have a fledgling aircraft-design and-manufacturing business, and being here in Utah puts me in the middle, between the coasts, and in dry air, where my equipment won’t corrode.”
Aircraft? Oh, this is wonderful! He’s tall, he’s good-looking, and he flies! Mr. Gray Eyes is going down in flames, his parachute is not opening, he’s hitting the ground with a resounding
smack … .
It’s sad, folks, but he’s been outshined by a man of action, of sagacity, of
… “Is your aircraft for general aviation, commercial, or the military?”
Again the flickering of thought crossed his eyes. I had used the correct jargon, and he had noticed. He said, “You fly?”
I grinned. “Yes. And so does Faye.”
He matched my grin. “Great. Yes, well, I am bringing on a new general-aviation in-line twin-engine craft—that’s my true love—but I
also make widgets for the government. That pays the rent while I search for capital and contracts so I can bring the twin into production.”
I was ready to sing odes of joy. “I have just a basic license, but Faye’s a multi-engine, instrument-rated, commercial pilot. She flies a Piper Cheyenne Two.”
Fritz raised his eyebrows in appraisal. “That’s a nice plane. Yeager set a time to climb record in a stock Cheyenne Two.”
Oh, this is perfect! He even approves of her choice in aircraft!
“You two should really meet,” I said. “Why don’t you come over for dinner once she gets back? You can bring your son, too. Or, that is, as long as he’s not dripping with a cold or something. Faye gets kind of jumpy about that sort of stuff around the baby.”
Fritz gave me a little
Why not?
shrug of his shoulders. “That would be very nice of you. My son’s in Germany just now with his mom, visiting her dad, so you won’t need the surgical masks. I’d offer to bring something, but I’m a lousy cook. Of course, I know how to pick out wines … .”
I laughed. “Wine is wasted on me; I don’t know it from sour grape juice. And Faye is still nursing the baby. But a good microbrew beer would be welcome.”
“Deal.”
“Deal.”
“Well, I gotta get to work.”
“Right.”
He nodded pleasantly and headed up the steps to his house. I headed back down the sidewalk to mine, all but chortling with glee.
So he’s a divorcé. So what? Faye wouldn’t even date one before she married and had that baby, but I’ll bet she’s got a different attitude now. Now, what excuse can I use to slip out and leave them romantically alone as they get to talking? I could say I have a midterm, or a paper due … and of course I’ll be such a pal and offer to put the baby to bed
… .
Life was once again filled with possibilities.
Ochre is a natural earth color which consists of silica and clay, and which owes its color to iron oxide in either the hydrous form (limonite or goethite, the latter mineral named for the poet) or anhydrous form (hematite, from the Latin for blood). It has been universally used as a pigment since earliest history, beginning with the painting of human bodies for ceremony and battle.
—from the files of Fred Petridge
JENNIFER NEUMANN CLOSED THE PROJECT FILE WITH THE TAB marked FRAVEL FARM and thumped it with her fist, right in the center of the color-coded manila folder where she had mounted the glossy printed sticker that read, PENNSYLVANIA OPEN SPACE HERITAGE FOUNDATION, FARMLANDS PRESERVATION DIVISION. This one wasn’t going her way; any fool could see that. If she and her crew didn’t get things turned around fast, Fravel would enter into negotiations with a developer, and yet another Lancaster County farm would be cut up into half-acre home sites. McMansions, she and her colleagues called them. Except that all six billion people on the planet couldn’t and wouldn’t be served. And yet these ‘starter castles’ were popping up like bad mushrooms all over the county, using up the best nonirrigated farmland in the United States to grow lawns upon which the idiot rich could cruise their ride-along mowers.
She had just returned from the Fravel farm, where she had seen the bad news with her own eyes. Farmer Fravel had lost patience with her efforts to get one of the farm-preservation bureaus to purchase his development
rights, and had begun planting his last crop: sod. She always knew what was coming when she saw a farmer planting sod. It meant he no longer cared about his topsoil, and was ready to have it peeled off along with the grass, rolled up and carted off to apply to the half-acre home sites that had been robbed of their topsoil by a previous subdividing farmer when he had planted
his
final crop.
Jennifer turned her hands inward so that she could examine her fingernails. They were painted a variety of lively colors, her one bow to cosmetics. She applied not a lick of color to the Germanic bones of her face, but coloring her fingernails amused her, and added the right touch of frivolity to her day.
She was able to tolerate such frustrations as the Fravel farm project without sinking into despair or burnout because she knew how to pace herself. It was tough being a one-woman foundation, spreading her expertise and support across the heritage concerns of an entire state on an almost nonexistent budget, but she had learned that when one project went into a bad dive, it was time to take a short visit to one on the upswing.
So she put away the Fravel file (color-coded green for “farmlands”) and shuffled through the other colors, searching for a project that would lift her spirits.
There’s the Rails-to-Trails group,
she mused, perusing an item she had assigned to a brown folder, indicating that the project was of historical importance. She had cross-referenced it with a yellow sticker, her color for “recreation,” indicating sunshine.
Rails to Trails is much more satisfying. I should call Fred Petridge at the Pennsylvania State Geologic Survey and ask where he’s gotten with the latest fund-raiser
. She opened the file, slid her finger down the front page until she found Fred’s number, and dialed.
A recorded message answered, informing all callers that Fred Petridge was temporarily away from his desk.
“Fred, it’s Jenny,” she said into the phone when the God Almighty recording beep cued her response. “Give me a call. It’s about the Big Savage Mountain railroad tunnel project. Just checking up, seeing how it’s going, giving you an attaboy and any help you might need. ’Bye.”
She returned to her stack of files and again sifted through them, looking for something else to sink her teeth into. A red file caught her attention.
Ah. Pursuant to Fred and the Geologic Survey, the limonite project could use a little more energy,
she decided, as she came to a file marked LIMONITE
PSEUDOMORPHS. She especially liked this project because it involved a mineral that was classically used in making paints, and Jenny was an artist of some accomplishment. Even though the experts had assured her that the limonite local farmers historically had plowed up in their fields was used for iron ore rather than in making red pigment, she still held out a hope that some farmer somewhere had harvested a little of the mineral to make barn-red paint. It was disappointing that most Lancaster County farmers painted their barns white, or built them out of stone and never had need of paint except for the doors, but she had never allowed contrary dogmas to stop her before, so why start now?
She opened the file and paged through it, admiring again the photographs she had taken of the little brown cubes, which she had assiduously labeled LIMONITE (AMORPHOUS HYDROUS IRON OXIDE), PSEUDOMORPHS AFTER PYRITE. There were three of the mysterious little cubes, and they ranged in size from a quarter- to a half-inch. It was through these little stones that she had met Fred Petridge. She had asked to speak with a mineral specialist, and he had held the little cubes in his hand and told her, “Pyrite is iron sulfide, a shiny, metallic-looking mineral. Its molecules organize into cubes as it crystallizes. Limonite pseudomorphs form when iron sulfide is altered into iron oxide, changing the internal structure of the crystal but preserving the external form. Where precisely did you get these?”
“On a farm in Manheim Township. They come up in the fields when the farmer plows in the spring.”
“Ah, yes. Weathering out of the soils. You’ll see them in the old bricks in the historic part of downtown Lancaster. They’re neat.”
“Are they rare?” she had asked. “Endangered?”
The geologist had given her a conspiratorial smile. “Are you trying to find an excuse to prevent development, perchance?”
Jennifer had lowered her eyelids slyly and smiled.
Petridge had shaken his head. “They’re uncommon these days, but not what you could call rare or endangered, like some kind of bird or trout. Sadly, minerals don’t enjoy protected status in the same sense that plants and animals do. I say sadly because when it comes to trying to save the farmlands, you’re preaching to the choir. I’ll take a view across open fields any day over a whole row of two-story houses with expensive cars sitting out front. I don’t know how you can tolerate working on that problem day after day.”
Jennifer had said, “I feel better sticking with it than walking away. People always ask me, ‘What can one woman do?’ but I tell them: ‘Plenty.’”
“One woman? I thought you were with a foundation.”
“I am. Pennsylvania Open Space Heritage Foundation is really just me, but calling myself a foundation gets me more respect. I team up with other groups as needed. Why don’t you come to a meeting sometime? We can have some laughs and lick envelopes. It’s a good crew. We could use your help.” She had tipped her head in a welcoming angle and given him a wink, and that had been all it took. His specialty in mineralogy was a great help, and it turned out that with a little coaxing, she had been able to get him interested in the Big Savage Railroad Tunnel, too, because it seemed he had a thing about railroads.
Jennifer now heaved a quick sigh, a habit she allowed herself more to fill her tissues with oxygen than to express any concern that she might not prevail in her tasks. She liked the limonite project because she liked Fred. This little respite of looking at the lovely pictures had helped to restore her vital juices, but it was time to get back to work on the farmlands issue.
She closed the red limonite file and opened another green one she had marked KREHBEIL FARM. On the inside left face of the folder she had clipped a phone-contact log listing every contact she had made to the Krehbeil family in her attempts to help them preserve their farm. She noted again that there had been an ominous slacking-off of contacts coming her way from them. Mr. Krehbeil had died, and his wife was ailing, but the daughter who lived with them seemed to share their interest in preservation.
She rechecked her phone log. The daughter’s name was Deirdre. Had Deirdre given up? Did she need money for doctors’ bills so badly that she was going for the final crop? Or was it that Mrs. Krehbeil had gotten so sick that Deirdre had no time even to think about the encroachment of developments around their farm?
Jennifer turned now to a photocopy of an aerial photo of the farm and its immediate environs. Only last week she had had to draw red diagonal lines across a farm less than a quarter-mile away, her symbol for another battle lost.
In working to preserve farm heritage, it was important to understand the dynamics of the families involved. Some followed religious principles, some played politics, and others just went after the money, letting the fur
fly where it may. In the case of Mr. Krehbeil, he had gone to meet his Maker, so his patriarchal stance was no longer in play. Mrs. Krehbeil was ill, which could mean anything from abdication of power with the onset of dependency to a total logjam, if the offspring were still clinging to her emotionally. There were four grown children; an abdication would leave them to duke out who got control of the situation. Deirdre was not returning Jenny’s phone calls. The older son had left to make his fortune decades ago; Deirdre had once told her that. The younger daughter had not shown her face around the county in years, a total flake according to Deirdre.
That left the second brother. His name was Hector. She’d heard stories about him that suggested that he would be of no help.
What the hell, I’ll give him a try,
Jennifer decided, as she once again picked up her telephone and dialed.