She looked at Jeff expectantly. “Can I do some
thing for you?” He realized she did not recognize him. He must look like some saddle tramp riding the grub line.
“Hello, Alice.”
Her eyes narrowed for a moment then widened in recognition and surprise, but there was no welcome in them, and no smile.
“Jeff, I didn
’t recognize you, what a surprise.”
“You
’ve changed too,” he said. “You’ve grown taller. She smiled faintly but said nothing. A moment passed and he began to feel awkward. “Could I come in?”
“Why yes, of course,” she said, but he sensed her hesitancy. She stepped back, opening the door more widely, and Jeff moved into the room.
“Mother, Jeff Havens is here,” Alice called out.
Jeff caught something in her voice, a trace of worry perhaps.
The house, like the night, was uncomfortably warm, but it was full of the pleasant, homey smells he remembered. His nose told him supper was on the stove, reminding him he had eaten nothing since noon.
Audrey Hammond, aproned and sweating, stepped into the room from the po
rch where the stove was located, a look of surprise and pleasure already fixed on her face. The look was insincere, as Jeff had known it would be—there had never been any great love between him and her, but Jeff was hoping to dispense with the old enmity, and for Anne’s sake, build a better relationship with his future mother-in-law.
Audrey
’s false smile dimmed perceptibly at her first sight of Jeff but was quickly retrieved as she rushed forward and hugged him, an act that made the situation seem more awkward. Backing away she said, “Jeffrey it’s so nice to see you again.” She had always called him by the long form of his name, knowing he disliked it.
“We
’ve missed you so much, young man.” She spoke in the same false, mawkish way he remembered.
“Thank you,” he replied. “You look very well Mrs. Hammond.”
In an attempt at girlishness that made her look foolish, Audrey primped and smoothed her dress, obviously misunderstanding the compliment. There was an uncomfortable silence, brief but significant.
“Everett isn
’t here,” she said. “He should be back any time.”
It seemed a strange thing to say but Jeff was too apprehensive to spend any time pondering strange things. He was back. He had survived some of the bloodiest battles of one of the bloodiest conflicts in human history. He had been wounded and had hovered near death for weeks
, and he had survived this too. He had endured terrible pain and loneliness, and in his present sick and weak condition, he had crossed most of the breadth of the continent. He had kept his promise: he had returned. And now, here under the roof of Anne’s home, he did not care where Everett was; he had come to see Anne.
“Is she
here?” he asked.
“Why yes, yes she is,” Audrey paused, and her smile became more forced. “Alice, go get Anne.”
Alice left the room, and Audrey motioned Jeff to a chair against the far wall. “Sit down, Jeffrey; I need to check the stove.” She turned and disappeared through the doorway to the porch, closing the door behind her.
Jeff knew Audrey had to tend to her cooking. He a
lso knew the door was used in the summer months to keep the heat of the stove from entering the house; still he felt abandoned and ill at ease. As he crossed the room to sit down he passed a mirror hanging on the wall and saw his reflection for the first time in weeks. Immediately he regretted his impatient decision to come here first rather than going home to clean up and change clothing. His body was thin and slightly stooped from fatigue. His clothes hung formlessly on his gaunt, six-foot-two-inch frame. His face was bearded and haggard, and he knew by his reflection, even more than by the way he felt, that the doctors had been right when they said he was not ready to attempt such a long journey.
“
Well I’m here now,” he thought as he tried to comb his unruly, dark hair with his fingers, “and that’s what really counts.” He knew that any second Anne would burst through the door and rush into his arms, and nothing else could possibly matter after that.
But it was more than a few seconds, in fact it was ten minutes before he heard a soft rustle in the hallway and Anne appeared.
He rose and faced her expectantly, holding his hat in his hands.
She looked different. Her face was ashen and drawn, her eyes were red and there was no welcoming in them.
“Hello Anne,” he said.
Alice appeared in the doorway behind
Anne., The door from the porch opened and Audrey entered the room bringing the tantalizing smells of hot food with her. Jeff’s stomach growled. He was sure he would be invited to stay for supper. Anne smiled weakly, and walked toward him. They embraced in the middle of the room, but she avoided his lips and held to him but briefly, then stepped back. He watched her, but her eyes would not meet his. He was mystified by this change in her.
“It
’s good to see you again,” he said, unable to think of anything else to ease the awkwardness.
She looked up at him, and her face was lifeless. “It
’s good to see you too, Jeff.”
This time he caught her eyes and tried without success to define what he saw there. He attempted to hold her gaze, but she looked away. The porch door closed again
—Audrey had returned to her cooking, but Alice remained in the doorway. Jeff wished she would leave, so he and Anne could speak more freely.
“Shall we go for a walk?” he asked.
She moved toward the door. He reached for her hand and held it as they walked. They sat on a wooden bench, under a tree. There was a soft breeze rustling in the branches above them, but otherwise, except for the chirping of crickets, the night was quiet. The moon shining through the leaves laid a gently moving lace of moonlight and shadow on Anne’s oval face, and she looked like the old Anne. The lines of unhappiness were erased by the benevolent light, and the paleness was camouflaged. It was the same face he had seen in a thousand cook-fires, the face that had visited him in his bittersweet dreams, the one he had seen whenever he had closed his eyes and thought of her. He pulled her to him and kissed her. He felt her lips on his, but there was no submissiveness, no warmth in them. After a moment she pulled away.
“I love you, Anne,” he said, trying desperately to draw out the old passion.
She took a deep breath. He saw her lips tighten, and she closed her eyes. After a moment she looked up at him and his stomach was gripped by an iron fist of dread greater than any fear he had experienced in battle.
She said, “I need to talk to you Jeff, there
’s something I have to tell you.” There was no hardness in her tone, nor was there gentleness. Her face and voice were like windblown sand upon which no creature has trodden and there is no story to be read.
“What is it Anne?
” His own voice betrayed none of the turbulence beneath.
“I
’m engaged to marry someone else.”
Jeff
’s world collapsed inside his chest. All of his hopes and plans for the future dissolved into nothing, and a great painful sense of loss enveloped him. He allowed none of this to show on his face. He understood how difficult this must be for Anne. Nor did he wish to make a bigger fool of himself than he already had. All that remained was for him to make the rest of this meeting as short and painless as possible for both of them. He struggled to think of something to say. “Are you happy?” he asked her, immediately regretting the question.
“Yes.”
“Good . . . that’s . . .” He broke off then murmured, “the important thing is that you’re happy.”
She was looking
into his eyes now, deeply. Jeff attempted a smile. “Tell me who he is, so I’ll know who to congratulate.” In an effort to mitigate the awkwardness he tried to sound unconcerned. The effect was a sort of false cheerfulness. It was the biggest lie he had ever told, and she believed it.
She dropped her gaze and said
without emotion, “Milt Carr.”
He tried to think of the next thing to say but was spared the effort when Audrey interrupted.
“Anne, I think you should come in now.”
Jeff was grateful for the intervention. “I
’ll walk you to the door.”
Keeping a few feet of distance between them, they walked to the house. He tried not to
limp as they crossed the yard, feeling, for some reason, the need to hide all his wounds. Anne reached the door ahead of him and turned to face him. Her eyes were in shadow.
“Best of everything to you, Anne.”
“And to
you.” Her voice was almost inaudible. There was something in it and in the lingering look she gave him, but he was through trying to decipher the indecipherable. And if it was sympathy, he wanted none of it.
“So long
,” he said. He turned away and heard her close the door behind him. He walked to his horse, heart-weary, and lifted himself into the saddle. He rode toward the Rafter 8, allowing the horse to choose its own gait—an easy-going walk. There was no hurry now.
When Anne re-entered the house, Audrey was waiting. “For a girl who
’s engaged to be married, you spent an awfully long time out in the dark with another man.”
Without glancing at her mother, Anne moved through the room and down the hallway to her bedroom. Audrey followed and listened at the door for a few minutes. Knowing her mother was there, Anne stood on the other side
, waiting until she heard the rustle of skirts and the creaking of floorboards that told her she was alone. Slowly she crumbled. Her stony expression melted into grief, her legs buckled and she dropped to her knees. Her shoulders shook with racking sobs, but no sound escaped her lips. She inclined forward until her forehead rested on the floor and torrents of pain flowed from her eyes.
Jeff
’s reunion with his grandfather and Amado was as he had expected it to be. There was handshaking and back slapping with much care taken not to say too much or show too much emotion. Jeff noted his grandfather looked older, but Amado appeared unchanged. Half Yaqui Indian, the old Mexican had been John Havens’ right hand man and closest friend since before Jeff was born, and the nearest thing Jeff had had to a father since early childhood when his own parents had died.
They ate supper and sat long into the night, talking and reminiscing. The night had cooled a little. The sounds and smells of this place caressed Jeff
’s senses and filled him with remembrance. The three men sat on the porch, sometimes talking, sometimes maintaining silence, listening to the mind-soothing night sounds. During these silent stretches, Jeff sat deep in thought and experienced the familiar yet unaccustomed ambiance of home. It was all as he remembered, but he could not be happy.
He spoke little of the war and they did not question him, knowing he would tell them
what he wished to tell them when he wished to tell it. The subject of Anne came up only once. It was toward the end of the evening, and it was Jeff who brought it up, knowing they would already know about her engagement to Milt Carr. “I stopped by the Hammond’s place on the way in.”
Old John looked
away but Amado looked at Jeff, his eyes searching, penetrating; and to those eyes Jeff unwillingly revealed everything. Then, Jeff dropped his gaze and turned away.
Amado loved Anne too, loved her like a daughter as he loved Jeff like a
son. The three of them had many times ridden out together and shared the wild beauty of the desert., and in times of difficulty, Anne had often come to Amado for advice, trusting him, as did Jeff, with her secrets and her sorrows. Amado was that kind of man.
Presently, John sto
od up stiffly and said, “Well, think I’ll get some shut-eye.”
When John had gone into the house Amado spoke without looking at Jeff
. “Will you stay?”
“No
.”
“Don
’t be gone too long; he’s not young.”
“No, but he doesn
’t need me.”
“No, but . . .” Amado paused,
“No.”
A cool breeze
billowed the curtains that hung before the window of the bedroom and the morning light danced patterns along the wall. Anne stirred from her position on the floor where she had spent an anguished night until finally in the early morning, sleep had overcome her exhausted mind. Her hair was tangled and still damp from the perspiration of the hot night. Her eyes were hollow and her features were drawn and lifeless. She lifted herself from the floor, slumped onto the bed and absently reached out and touched a small plant in a clay pot on the windowsill. It would need watering today, but she didn’t care.
She
shared the room with her sister, but because of the heat, Alice had slept on the porch with the rest of the family, mercifully leaving Anne to herself.
There was a small sound at the other side of the door. She knew it was her mother, who would listen for a while,
then turn the knob. Finding it locked, she would give a resentful knock. The turn of the knob and the knock were longer than usual in coming this morning, but they came, though Anne dreaded the sound of them. The voice: hard, demanding, void of tenderness said, “Anne, it’s time to get up. We’ve things to do today.”