The Long Road Home (17 page)

May brought herself up to full height in her chair, her ample bosom swelling to awesome proportions. In a firm voice she said, “Esther ought not to get married yet. She ought to go to New York.”

“I never told her to stay. Never tell any of my kids how to live.”

“You don’t have to.”

Seth shifted his gaze toward his sister. Confusion mingled with surprise in his eyes.

“Your kids love you,” she said. “They flock around you like bees to honey. And I’m not sayin’ that’s bad. It’s good fer some. Take Frank. Ain’t nothin’ he wants more than to live his life on this land. Sarah’s just a bit mixed up now, but she’ll turn out all right. She don’t wanna go nowhere else. Her life is here with Grace and Timmy, and Zach too, once they settle up. And you know they will if’n you stop coddlin’ her and boot her out.”

Seth raised his chin high and furiously scratched his neck.

“Junior.” May paused while her face eased. “Well, Junior may be simple but he’s all heart and he’ll live a good life here. Frank will always look out for his brother.”

“That’s how it should be.” Seth was looking out the window.

“Yeh-up.” May paused and made circles with her two thumbs. “Esther, though, is a maverick. She can’t live by the hand-me-down values the rest of us live by. For you it’s always the boys that go off huntin’. And it’ll be the girls that tend the home. Well sir, Esther ain’t like most women. She’s slender in the hips. Esther’s got to go out and stake out her own territory.”

Seth dropped his hand down on the table. The spoons rattled on the metal table.

“So let her go! The gate’s wide open.”

May shook her head and turned sad eyes toward Seth. He had a look of resolution on his face she knew too well.

“She can’t,” May said gently. “The gate might be open, but the electricity’s still on. She’s scared of gettin’ zapped.” May’s eyes flashed and she leaned as far forward over the table as her bosom would allow.

“Seth, you got to give your daughter permission to leave. You got to turn off the fence.”

Seth angrily pushed himself away from the table, the chair scraping against the floor. For a moment he stood looking down at his sister. His face was flushed, and his lips tightened and loosened, fishing for the right words. May waited, then frowned when Seth merely brushed his hand in the air with a frustrated swipe and strode over to the door. He rested his hand on the handle a spell, pondering, then turned to face her. His face was resolute.

“I reckon she’s old enough to turn it off herself.”

ONE GOOD TURN deserved another in her book. Nora wanted to show her appreciation in ways that counted up here. In action. First on her list was C.W. Nora appreciated his kindness in the barn, his loan of books, and his driving her to town, knowing full well he counted the minutes until they got out of the town limits. C.W. was always doing that, giving up his time to help someone. How often had she seen him rush to Seth’s side to carry a heavy bag or a tool for the old man? How many hours did he spend tutoring Frank in business? Esther was like a sister to him. They parried and shared barn chores in a way that would have made her jealous were it not such a friendly exchange to witness.

As she clambered across the meadow, the little red wagon filled with shopping bags bumping along behind her, she wondered about her elusive hired hand and his penchant for secrecy.

She came upon the little gray cabin suddenly. It sat on a rounded hilltop in the middle of a grassy clearing. The sun shone straight upon the tin roof without the hindrance of
maple, birch, and cherry branches. It had been her cabin once. Nora had added flower boxes under the four-square windows, a slate front stoop, and to the left side of the cabin, the rising hill was held back by a boulder retaining wall.

The cabin sat on the border of the Johnston land, giving the cabin full view of Esther’s small Christmas tree meadow and below that, Seth’s marvelous Skeleton Tree Pond. Nora had built the cabin on this picturesque spot as a place to paint. That, she thought sadly now, was another dream that had died up here.

She pushed open the door to the cabin; it creaked loudly, making her cringe thinking the entire forest could hear the high wail. She peered around the door into the room. Motes of dust floated in a single ray of sunshine that filtered through the southern panes of glass. Nora hesitated, her hand resting on the knob. She didn’t want to invade C.W.’s privacy. But hadn’t she promised to help fix up the place?

Her mind made up, she hoisted the bundles in her arms up with her knee and walked into the one-room cabin. His room, now.

Her first thought was that C.W. lived like a monk. Four straight-backed chairs. A faded sleeping bag on the black iron bed. Dishes stacked on a shelf, collecting dust. Everywhere else lay books. Piles of texts tilted in the corner. Sheep and farming magazines were neatly stacked under the bed, and a long row of old, leather-bound volumes crowned the mantelpiece. Nora ran her finger across the crinkled leather as she browsed: Lao-tzu, Jung, de Tocqueville, Thoreau, Mark Twain. Her brow rose. Pretty sophisticated reading for a laborer.

On the table, one book, The
I Ching,
lay open beside a piece of paper and three pennies. Intrigued, she walked over for a closer look. He had drawn some kind of hexagram on
the paper and beneath it scribbled notes in a tight, illegible script. Something about “the wise man and perseverance.”

Another torn scrap of paper was sticking out from beneath the book. On this sheet, one word caught her eye. At the bottom of the paper, encircled so many times the tip of the pen had scraped through the paper, was the name
Nora.

She caught her breath and stepped back from the table. This was too private. Sure, she was curious about the private Mr. Walker, but she wouldn’t pry.

So Nora set right to work. Out of the shopping bag she pulled a freshly laundered down quilt and crisp white cotton linens. She approached the bed with militaristic purpose, but as she bent to fold up the sleeping bag, the musky, stale-sweet odor of his bedding arrested her. The scent was as identifiable as his signature.

Absently, she ran her fingertips atop the sleeping bag’s flannel lining, along the cold jagged edge of the zipper, and finally, traced the depression on his pillow. Nora gathered the faded green sleeping bag to her face, sniffing tentatively, then rested her cheek against the soft flannel. This was as close as she might ever get to holding him.

Nora jolted back.

Back to work, she ordered herself, shaking the thoughts away firmly as she shook out the sleeping bag at arm’s length. In like manner, Nora efficiently made the bed, dusted the furniture, swept the floors, and washed the grimy window-panes. It brought her pleasure to take care of him. She told herself it was because she was grateful for all he had done for her, but her heart didn’t buy it. Smelling his scent, touching his books, making his bed—all these intimate actions hinted the truth. She was falling in love with him.

After a few more trips back and forth from the wagon, Nora was finished. Arms akimbo, she surveyed her work. It would
do, she decided, pleased. The bed was now comfortably made up with fresh linens and a down quilt of slate blue. Curtains hung at the windows. A round, brightly colored braided rug stretched out before the wood stove, and sitting on the iron stove sat a new tea kettle and a selection of instant tea and coffee. Still, something was missing.

Her eyes scanned the room and were drawn to the far corner. Tilting against the wall, behind a pile of dirty laundry, rested a canvas. The scene depicted a shepherd, whose familiar hands-on-hips stance suggested alertness yet calm. He stood on a bluff overlooking a field dotted with white-fleeced sheep. Nora sighed. The painting was magnificent; Esther’s talent undeniable.

Nora grabbed hold of the large canvas and lifted it high atop the mantelpiece, shoving aside the books to make room. There was no competition here. Nora knew raw talent when she saw it, and respected it. Standing back, she nodded firmly.

“I’ve been meaning to do that for some time,” C.W. said from the doorway.

Nora whirled around, her eyes wide and her mouth agape. “What are you doing here?” she gasped.

C.W.’s brows gathered and he folded his arms across his broad chest. “I was about to ask you the same question.”

A great whoosh escaped from Nora’s lungs as she flopped her hands upon her apron. Her gaze circled the room, then shyly returned to his. What could she say that her actions didn’t already scream out? She could feel a hot burn rising on her cheeks. The way he was staring at her, she felt certain he understood every secret that her work implied.

He remained silent, waiting, and she knew him well enough by now that he could stand there forever.

“I’d promised to fix things up,” she started.

No reply.

“I picked up a few things in town…”

He still stood there, like a stubborn mule, not helping her out of this awkward situation in the least. Embarrassment, frustration, and pique all flared at once, prompting her to hustle over to her cleaning supplies and begin stuffing them back into the bags.

“Oh, forget it,” she said without looking back. “I just wanted to say thanks. So thanks.”

Her back to him, she didn’t see him smile.

He scanned the small room, picking up the myriad details of change. The effect wasn’t frilly, but homey. The blue-checked curtains matched the tablecloth, and there was no doubt in his mind she’d sewn them herself. The floors smelled of soap and the windows sparkled. And seeing the tea, he realized she’d noticed that he preferred herbal. C.W. was touched, much more than he cared to admit.

“It looks quite nice, Nora.”

Her hands stilled upon the brown bags. Without looking up, she murmured, “Thank you.”

He watched her as she bent over the bags. Her softly rounded bottom was so womanly, complementing her actions. How could a woman like her have been married to a man like Mike MacKenzie, he wondered for the hundredth time?

“Nora,” he said, stepping inside, “why do you never speak of your husband?”

Nora stiffened, caught off guard, and quickly finished collecting her supplies. “It’s too painful,” she replied, not looking at him.

He winced, thinking that he’d been wrong. That she still mourned him. “Yet you said you didn’t miss him. At all.”

Nora heaved a sigh, one that spoke of frustration and impatience. She slowly rose to her feet, all the while wiping her hands upon her apron.

“By the time Mike died,” she explained in a matter-of-fact voice, “there was nothing much between us to miss. He thought I’d failed him, not having his baby and all.”

Nora walked over to the window and stared out over the bluff. But rather than pines and hills, in the vista Nora saw shapes and figures of her past.

“As he…went out more, I buried myself in my work on various art museum committees. People said I should have left him. They called me a fool, laughing behind my back. Did they think I didn’t hear?” She grasped the curtain tightly in her hand. “But that’s not my way. Not the way I was raised. I believed in my marriage vows—for better or for worse. I just got a little more of the worse.”

Nora’s shoulders slumped as she slowly untied her apron and lifted it over her head. C.W. watched as she folded it neatly, pressing the creases in the fabric while lost in thought. Then she walked back and tossed it carelessly into the bag.

“I spent a lot of time at our house in Connecticut,” she continued. “In my garden.” She lifted her brows, daring him to question. When he didn’t, she said, subdued, “I guess I was hiding from the truth.”

Nora met his eyes. “What about you, Mr. Walker? It’s obvious you’re not some uneducated laborer.” She waved her hands to indicate the stacks of books all over the room.

“When we were in town, did you think I didn’t notice the way you tugged the brim of your hat over your sunglasses? I’ve never known a man to check over his shoulder as often as you did. What are you hiding from?”

C.W. walked over to the table, allowing his hand to rest upon the opened book. Nora tracked each movement. C.W. appeared to read a line or two of it, then moved his hand the few inches over to the paper that held her name. It lingered there, the tip of his index finger tracing over the circled
name. Then, very slowly, he crumpled the paper into his large hand.

“Have you ever killed a man?” he asked, slowly raising his eyes to hers.

Nora paled. Old suspicions flashed through her mind. “No,” she replied softly. “Of course not.”

“Of course not,” C.W. repeated. “Neither have I. At least not directly. But indirectly I caused a man’s death. And the guilt is just as strong.” He raked his hair with his fingers, leaving paths in the gold like plowed fields of wheat. “Does one ever escape from that?”

Nora was struck with the pain in C.W.’s eyes and she knew, for certain, that she’d never have to fear this man.

“It doesn’t pay to hide,” she told him. “I’ve tried it. The problem doesn’t go away.”

Silence settled in the room as peacefully as the sun settled in the western sky. A pinkish pall flooded the gray cabin. Off in the distance, the birds sang out a mournful call, sounding the end of another day.

“It’s getting late. I’d better go,” said Nora, gathering her things. As she lifted them she felt his two strong arms hoist the bags from her. He walked to the wagon and was about to put them in when, resting the bags on his bent knee, he carefully removed a grapevine wreath from the bin.

“What’s this?” he asked, settling the bags in the wagon and lifting the wreath.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” muttered Nora, rushing over.

“Not so fast,” he said in a teasing voice, raising it out of her reach. “Let’s take a look.” The rough grapevine wreath was adorned with dried flowers and milkweed pods. The effect of the soft gray puffs against the curling, woody vine was exquisitely natural. Like Nora.

Nora’s cheeks were flaming. She had made it for him.
Compared to Esther’s powerful painting, however, it seemed so naive. Yet, it was her best, and that was all she had to give.

“It’s quite nice,” he said, admiration in his eyes. He grabbed a hammer and nail from his tool chest and headed straight for the door. With three firm taps, the nail was in and the wreath was up.

Nora walked over to the wreath and ran her fingertip through the downy seeds. “Now, it’s home,” she whispered. “You can stay here, C.W.,” she added, eyes on the wreath, “for as long as you wish.”

Behind her, she sensed him shorten the distance between them until he stood inches away from her. His breath was warm upon her head. She could smell the musky scent of his skin. She recognized it, like a pheromone, and it sent her blood racing and her heart palpitating.

She waited for what seemed an eternity, listening to his breathing grow labored behind her. The fine hairs on her head tingled as his lips lowered to lightly graze in the soft gold. His breath was warm. His fingertips lightly cupped her elbows, then stretched out to caress upward along her arms to her shoulders. Suddenly, his grip tightened, even as his lips lowered to her head and he pulled her back against his broad chest. She closed her eyes and arched her neck back like a swan. For a moment they stood there, as the birds called, as the sky darkened. For a moment they were not Charles Walker Blair and Nora MacKenzie, nor boss and hired hand. They were simply a man and a woman.

C.W. released her shoulder to grab the door and give it a closing shove. But Nora flashed out her own arm, stopping its swing shut.

“I’m not ready for this, C.W.,” she hammered out.

Feeling his hands drop away from her, Nora moved away and hurried from the cabin. She couldn’t look back. Grabbing
hold of the wagon’s handle, she hastened her trek back across the meadow. The little red wagon wobbled behind her. Nora heard the
clunk, clunk, clunk
of bottles banging in and out of the bag, but she didn’t dare look back to see what she had lost.

Junior and Frank sprawled across the front seat of their Impala not saying anything, just staring out the left side of the car toward the plate glass window of the Look, a small dress shop in Rutland. The dress shop sat between Putnam’s Ace Hardware Store, with a few snow shovels and snow blowers in the window, and the Green Earth health food store that stuffed every square inch of their display window with tea, vitamins, and assorted snack foods. The tiny shops clustered together in the dirty stone federal building like war veterans at a parade. They were old, run-down, and had seen former days of glory. Not one had “the look” that would stop the parade of cars from passing.